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A  ROMANCE  OF 
YOUTH 

By    FRANCOIS    COPPEE 

Crowned   by    the    French    Academy 


With  a   Preface   by   JOSE 
DE  HEELEDIA, 


(  UJUfgUft 

•*  bX  N-  QFU.GANTI     , 
[From  the  Original  Etching  by  Robert  Kaslor.] 


NEW    YORK 

Current  Literature  Publishing  Company 

1908 


I  •voUu'A 


A  ROMANCE  OF 


YOU 


By    FRANCOIS   COPPEE 


Crowned   by    the    French    Academy 


With  a  Preface  by  JOSE 
DE  HEREDIA,  of  the 
French  Academy,  and  Illus- 
trations by  N.  BRIGANTI 


NEW    YORK 

Current  Literature  Publishing  Company 

1908 


COPYRIGHT,    1905 

BY 
ROBERT    ARNOT 


pa 

21  N 


FRANgOIS  COPPEE 


'RANfOIS  EDOUARD  JOACHIM 
COPPEE  was  born  in  Paris,  Janu- 
ary 12,  1842.  His  father  was  a  minor 
employe  in  the  French  War  Office; 
and,  as  the  family  consisted  of  six — 
the  parents,  three  daughters,  and  a 
son  (the  subject  of  this  essay) — the 
early  years  of  the  poet  were  not  spent 
in  great  luxury.  After  the  father's  death,  the  young 
man  himself  entered  the  governmental  office  with  its 
monotonous  work.  In  the  evening  he  studied  hard  at 
St.  Genevieve  Library.  He  made  rhymes,  had  them 
even  printed  (Le  Reliquaire,  1866);  but  the  public  re- 
mained indifferent  until  1869,  when  his  comedy  in 
verse,  Le  Passant,  appeared.  From  this  period  dates 
the  reputation  of  Coppee — he  woke  up  one  morning  a 
"celebrated  man." 

Like  many  of  his  countrymen,  he  is  a  poet,  a  drama- 
tist, a  novelist,  and  a  writer  of  fiction.  He  was  elected 
to  the  French  Academy  in  1884.  Smooth-shaven,  of 
placid  figure,  with  pensive  eyes,  the  hair  brushed  back 
regularly,  the  head  of  an  artist,  Copped  can  be  seen 
any  day  looking  over  the  display  of  the  Parisian  second- 
hand booksellers  on  the  Quai  Malaquais;  at  home  on 
the  writing-desk,  a  page  of  carefullv  prepared  manu- 

[v] 


PREFACE 

script,  yet  sometimes  covered  by  cigarette-ashes;  upon 
the  wall,  sketches  by  Jules  Lefebvre  and  Jules  Breton; 
a  little  in  the  distance,  the  gaunt  form  of  his  attentive 
sister  and  companion,  Annette,  occupied  with  house- 
hold cares,  ever  fearful  of  disturbing  him.  Within  this 
tranquil  domicile  can  be  heard  the  noise  of  the  Parisian 
faubourg  with  its  thousand  different  dins;  the  bustle  of 
the  street;  the  clatter  of  a  factory;  the  voice  of  the 
workshop;  the  cries  of  the  pedlers  intermingled  with 
the  chimes  of  the  bells  of  a  near-by  convent — a  confus- 
ing buzzing  noise,  which  the  author,  however,  seems  to 
enjoy;  for  Coppee  is  Parisian  by  birth,  Parisian  by 
education,  a  Parisian  of  the  Parisians. 

If  as  a  poet  we  contemplate  him,  Coppee  belongs  to 
the  group  commonly  called  "Parnassiens" — not  the 
Romantic  School,  the  sentimental  lyric  effusion  of  La- 
martine,  Hugo,  or  De  Musset!  When  the  poetical  lute 
was  laid  aside  by  the  triad  of  1830,  it  was  taken  up  by 
men  of  quite  different  stamp,  of  even  opposed  tenden- 
cies. Observation  of  exterior  matters  was  now  greatly 
adhered  to  in  poetry;  it  became  especially  descriptive 
and  scientific ;  the  aim  of  every  poet  was  now  to  render 
most  exactly,  even  minutely,  the  impressions  received, 
or  faithfully  to  translate  into  artistic  language  a  thesis 
of  philosophy,  a  discovery  of  science.  With  such  a  po- 
etical doctrine,  you  will  easily  understand  the  impor- 
tance which  the  "naturalistic  form"  henceforth  as- 
sumed. 

Coppde,  however,  is  not  only  a  maker  of  verses,  he  is 
an  artist  and  a  poet.  Every  poem  seems  to  have 

[vi] 


PREFACE 

sprung  from  a  genuine  inspiration.  When  he  sings,  it 
is  because  he  has  something  to  sing  about,  and  the  re- 
sult is  that  his  poetry  is  nearly  always  interesting. 
Moreover,  he  respects  the  limits  of  his  art;  for  while  his 
friend  and  contemporary,  M.  Sully-Prudhomme,  goes 
astray  habitually  into  philosophical  speculation,  and 
his  immortal  senior,  Victor  Hugo,  often  declaims,  if  one 
may  venture  to  say  so,  in  a  manner  which  is  tedious, 
Coppee  sticks  rigorously  to  what  may  be  called  the 
proper  regions  of  poetry. 

Francois  Coppee  is  not  one  of  those  superb  high- 
priests  disdainful  of  the  throng:  he  is  the  poet  of  the 
"humble,"  and  in  his  work,  Les  Humbles,  he  paints 
with  a  sincere  emotion  his  profound  sympathy  for  the 
sorrows,  the  miseries,  and  the  sacrifices  of  the  meek. 
Again,  in  his  Gr&ve  des  Forgerons,  Le  Naujrage,  and 
L'Epave,  all  poems  of  great  extension  and  universal 
reputation,  he  treats  of  simple  existences,  of  unknown 
unfortunates,  and  of  sacrifices  which  the  daily  papers 
do  not  record.  The  coloring  and  designing  are  pre- 
cise, even  if  the  tone  be  somewhat  sombre,  and  nobody 
will  deny  that  Coppee  most  fully  possesses  the  tech- 
nique of  French  poetry. 

But  Francois  Coppee  is  known  to  fame  as  a  prose- 
writer,  too.  His  Conies  en  prose  and  his  Vingt  Conies 
Nouveaux  are  gracefully  and  artistically  told ;  scarcely 
one  of  the  conies  fails  to  have  a  moral  motive.  The 
stories  are  short  and  naturally  slight;  some,  indeed, 
incline  rather  to  the  essay  than  to  the  story,  but  each 
has  that  enthralling  interest  which  justifies  its  existence. 
Coppee  possesses  preeminently  the  gift  of  presenting 

[vii] 


PREFACE 

concrete  fact  rather  than  abstraction.  A  sketch,  for  in- 
stance, is  the  first  tale  written  by  him,  Une  Idylle  pen- 
dant le  Siege  (1875).  In  a  novel  we  require  strong  char- 
acterization, great  grasp  of  character,  and  the  novelist 
should  show  us  the  human  heart  and  intellect  in  full 
play  and  activity.  In  1875  appeared  also  Olivier,  fol- 
lowed by  UEodlee  (1876);  Recits  et  Elegies  (1878); 
Vingt  Conies  Nouveaux  (1883) ;  and  Toute  une  Jeunesse 
(1840),  mainly  an  autobiography,  crowned  by  acclaim 
by  the  Academy.  Le  Coupable  was  published  in  1897. 
Finally,  in  1898,  appeared  La  Bonne  Souffrance.  In  the 
last-mentioned  work  it  would  seem  that  the  poet,  just 
recovering  from  a  severe  malady,  has  returned  to  the 
dogmas  of  the  Catholic  Church,  wherefrom  he,  like  so 
many  of  his  contemporaries,  had  become  estranged 
when  a  youth.  The  poems  of  1902,  Dans  la  Priere  el 
dans  la  Lutte,  tend  to  confirm  the  correctness  of  this 
view. 

Thanks  to  the  juvenile  Sarah  Bernhardt,  Coppee  be- 
came, as  before  mentioned,  like  Byron,  celebrated  in 
one  night.  This  happened  through  the  performance  of 
Le  Passant. 

As  interludes  to  the  plays  there  are  "occasional" 
theatrical  pieces,  written  for  the  fiftieth  anniversary  of 
the  performance  of  Hernani  or  the  two  -  hundredth 
anniversary  of  the  foundation  of  the  "Comedie  Fran- 
caise."  This  is  a  wide  field,  indeed,  which  M.  Coppe"e 
has  cultivated  to  various  purposes. 

Take  CoppeVs  works  in  their  sum  and  totality,  and 
the  world-decree  is  that  he  is  an  artist,  and  an  admirable 
one.  He  plays  upon  his  instrument  with  all  power  and 

[  viii  1 


PREFACE 

grace.  But  he  is  no  mere  virtuoso.  There  is  some- 
thing in  him  beyond  the  executant.  Of  Malibran,  Al- 
fred de  Musset  says,  most  beautifully,  that  she  had  that 
"voice  of  the  heart  which  alone  has  power  to  reach  the 
heart."  Here,  also,  behind  the  skilful  player  on  lan- 
guage, the  deft  manipulator  of  rhyme  and  rhythm,  the 
graceful  and  earnest  writer,  one  feels  the  beating  of  a 
human  heart.  One  feels  that  he  is  giving  us  personal 
impressions  of  life  and  its  joys  and  sorrows;  that  his 
imagination  is  powerful  because  it  is  genuinely  his  own; 
that  the  flowers  of  his  fancy  spring  spontaneously  from 
the  soil.  Nor  can  I  regard  it  as  aught  but  an  added 
grace  that  the  strings  of  his  instrument  should  vibrate 
so  readily  to  what  is  beautiful  and  unselfish  and  del- 
icate in  human  feeling. 


de  l'Acac<?mie  Frangaise. 


[ix] 


CONTENTS 

A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 
CHAPTER  I 

PAGE 

ON  THE  BALCONY i 

CHAPTER  II 
SAD  CHANGES 14 

CHAPTER  III 
PAPA  AND  MAMMA  GERARD 26 

CHAPTER  IV 
THE  DEMON  ABSINTHE .     .42 

CHAPTER  V 
AM£D£E  MAKES  FRIENDS 57 

CHAPTER  VI 
DREAMS  OF  LOVE 69 

CHAPTER  VII 
A  GENTLE  COUNSELLOR 77 

CHAPTER  VIII 

BUTTERFLIES  AND  GRASSHOPPERS 85 

[xi] 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  IX 

VA6E 

THORNS  OF  JEALOUSY 97 

CHAPTER  X 
A  BUDDING  POET in 

CHAPTER  XI 
SUCCESS 128 

CHAPTER  XII 
SOCIAL  TRIUMPHS -. 147 

CHAPTER  XIII 
A  SERPENT  AT  THE  FIRESIDE 166 

CHAPTER  XIV 
Too  LATE! * 183 

CHAPTER  XV 
REPARATION 203 

CHAPTER  XVI 
IN  TIME  OF  WAR 219 

CHAPTER  XVII 
"WHEN  YOUTH,  THE  DREAM,  DEPARTS" 239 


[xii] 


CONTENTS 

SHORT   STORIES 

RESTITUTION 

CHAPTER  I 

PAGE 

THE  HONEST  THIEF 251 

CHAPTER  II 
THE  DWELLING  OF  A  POET 266 

CHAPTER  III 
THE  SCHOOL  FOR  DEMOISELLES 276 

CHAPTER  IV 
ALL  is  WELL  WITH  MOTHER  AND  CHILD 285 

CHAPTER  V 
IN  THE  GAY  WORLD 296 

CHAPTER  VI 
CONCLUSION 307 

THE  CURE  FOR  DISCONTENT 

CHAPTER  I 
TOIL  AND  HEALTH 311 

CHAPTER  II 
THE  FIRST  PLUNGE 328 

CHAPTER  III 
THE  CURE 348 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING  PAGE 

Francois  Coppee  (portrait} Frontispiece 

Abbe  Moulin,  the  old  Cure,  almost  asleep,  sat  near  the  fire  .  252 
Zoe's  eyes,  looking  to  Alberic,  shone 324 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

CHAPTER  I 

ON  THE  BALCONY 

far  back  as  Amedee  Violette  can  re- 
member, he  sees  himself  in  an  infant's 
cap  upon  a  fifth-floor  balcony  cov- 
ered with  convolvulus;  the  child 
was  very  small,  and  the  balcony 
seemed  very  large  to  him.  Amedee 
had  received  for  a  birthday  present 
a  box  of  water-colors,  with  which  he 
was  sprawled  out  upon  an  old  rug,  earnestly  intent 
upon  his  work  of  coloring  the  woodcuts  in  an  odd 
volume  of  the  Magasin  Pittoresque,  and  wetting  his 
brush  from  time  to  time  in  his  mouth.  The  neighbors 
in  the  next  apartment  had  a  right  to  one-half  of  the 
balcony.  Some  one  in  there  was  playing  upon  the 
piano  Marcailhou's  Indiana  Waltz,  which  was  all  the 
rage  at  that  time.  Any  man,  born  about  the  year 
1845,  wno  does  not  feel  tne  tears  °f  homesickness  rise 
to  his  eyes  as  he  turns  over  the  pages  of  an  old  num- 
ber of  the  Magasin  Pittoresque,  or  who  hears  some 
one  play  upon  an  old  piano  Marcailhou's  Indiana 
Waltz,  is  not  endowed  with  much  sensibility. 

[i] 


FRANCOIS 

When  the  child  was  tired  of  putting  the  "flesh  color" 
upon  the  faces  of  all  the  persons  in  the  engravings, 
he  got  up  and  went  to  peep  through  the  railings  of 
the  balustrade.  He  saw  extending  before  him,  from 
right  to  left,  with  a  graceful  curve,  the  Rue  Notre-Dame- 
des-Champs,  one  of  the  quietest  streets  in  the  Luxem- 
bourg quarter,  then  only  half  built  up.  The  branches 
of  the  trees  spread  over  the  wooden  fences,  which 
enclosed  gardens  so  silent  and  tranquil  that  passers- 
by  could  hear  the  birds  singing  in  their  cages. 

It  was  a  September  afternoon,  with  a  broad  expanse 
of  pure  sky  across  which  large  clouds,  like  mountains 
of  silver,  moved  in  majestic  slowness. 

Suddenly  a  soft  voice  called  him: 

"Amedee,  your  father  will  return  from  the  office 
soon.  We  must  wash  your  hands  before  we  sit  down 
to  the  table,  my  darling." 

His  mother  came  out  upon  the  balcony  for  him. 
His  mother;  his  dear  mother,  whom  he  knew  for  so 
short  a  time !  It  needs  an  effort  for  him  to  call  her  to 
mind  now,  his  memories  are  so  indistinct.  She  was  so 
modest  and  pretty,  so  pale,  and  with  such  charming 
blue  eyes,  always  carrying  her  head  on  one  side,  as 
if  the  weight  of  her  lovely  chestnut  hair  was  too  heavy 
for  her  to  bear,  and  smiling  the  sweet,  tired  smile  of 
those  who  have  not  long  to  live!  She  made  his  toilette, 
kissed  him  upon  his  forehead,  after  brushing  his  hair. 
Then  she  laid  their  modest  table,  which  was  always 
decorated  with  a  pretty  vase  of  flowers.  Soon  the 
father  entered.  He  was  one  of  those  mild,  unpreten- 
tious men  who  let  everybody  run  over  them. 

[2] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

He  tried  to  be  gay  when  he  entered  his  own  house. 
He  raised  his  little  boy  aloft  with  one  arm,  before 
kissing  him,  exclaiming,  "Houp  la!"  A  moment 
later  he  kissed  his  young  wife  and  held  her  close  to 
him,  tenderly,  as  he  asked,  with  an  anxious  look: 

"Have  you  coughed  much  to-day?" 

She  always  replied,  hanging  her  head  like  a  child 
who  tells  an  untruth,  "No,  not  very  much." 

The  father  would  then  put  on  an  old  coat — the  one 
he  took  off  was  not  very  new.  Amedee  was  then 
seated  in  a  high  chair  before  his  mug,  and  the  young 
mother,  going  into  the  kitchen,  would  bring  in  the 
supper.  After  opening  his  napkin,  the  father  would 
brush  back  behind  his  ear  with  his  hand  a  long  lock 
on  the  right  side,  that  always  fell  into  his  eyes. 

"Is  there  too  much  of  a  breeze  this  evening?  Are 
you  afraid  to  go  out  upon  the  balcony,  Lucie?  Put 
a  shawl  on,  then,"  said  M.  Violette,  while  his  wife 
was  pouring  the  water  remaining  in  the  carafe  upon 
a  box  where  some  nasturtiums  were  growing. 

"No,  Paul,  I  am  sure — take  Amedee  down  from 
his  chair,  and  let  us  go  out  upon  the  balcony." 

It  was  cool  upon  this  high  balcony.  The  sun  had 
set,  and  now  the  great  clouds  resembled  mountains  of 
gold,  and  a  fresh  odor  came  up  from  the  surrounding 
gardens. 

"Good-evening,  Monsieur  Violette,"  suddenly  said 
a  cordial  voice.  "What  a  fine  evening!" 

It  was  their  neighbor,  M.  Gerard,  an  engraver, 
who  had  also  come  to  take  breath  upon  his  end  of 
the  balcony,  having  spent  the  entire  day  bent  over 

[3] 


FRANCOIS  COPPtfE 

his  work.  He  was  large  and  bald-headed,  with  a 
good-natured  face,  a  red  beard  sprinkled  with  white 
hairs,  and  he  wore  a  short,  loose  coat.  As  he  spoke 
he  lighted  his  clay  pipe,  the  bowl  of  which  represented 
Abd-el-Kader's  face,  very  much  colored,  save  the  eyes 
and  turban,  which  were  of  white  enamel. 

The  engraver's  wife,  a  dumpy  little  woman  with 
merry  eyes,  soon  joined  her  husband,  pushing  before 
her  two  little  girls;  one,  the  smaller  of  the  two,  was 
two  years  younger  than  Amedee;  the  other  was  ten 
years  old,  and  already  had  a  wise  little  air.  She  was 
the  pianist  who  practised  one  hour  a  day  Marcailhou's 
Indiana  Waltz. 

The  children  chattered  through  the  trellis  that  di- 
vided the  balcony  in  two  parts.  Louise,  the  elder  of 
the  girls,  knew  how  to  read,  and  told  the  two  little 
ones  very  beautiful  stories:  Joseph  sold  by  his  brethren; 
Robinson  Crusoe  discovering  the  footprints  of  human 
beings. 

Amedee,  who  now  has  gray  hair  upon  his  temples, 
can  still  remember  the  chills  that  ran  down  his  back 
at  the  moment  when  the  wolf,  hidden  under  cover- 
ings and  the  grandmother's  cap,  said,  with  a  gnashing 
of  teeth,  to  little  Red  Riding  Hood:  "All  the  better  to 
eat  you  with,  my  child." 

It  was  almost  dark  then  upon  the  terrace.  It  was 
all  delightfully  terrible! 

During  this  time  the  two  families,  in  their  respective 
parts  of  the  balcony,  were  talking  familiarly  together. 
The  Violettes  were  quiet  people,  and  preferred  rather 
to  listen  to  their  neighbors  than  to  talk  themselves, 

[4] 


making  brief  replies  for  politeness'  sake — "Ah!"  "Is 
it  possible?"  "You  are  right." 

The  Gerards  liked  to  talk.  Madame  Gerard,  who 
was  a  good  housekeeper,  discussed  questions  of  domes- 
tic economy;  telling,  for  example,  how  she  had  been 
out  that  day,  and  had  seen,  upon  the  Rue  du  Bac, 
some  merino:  "A  very  good  bargain,  I  assure  you, 
Madame,  and  very  wide!"  Or  perhaps  the  engraver, 
who  was  a  simple  politician,  after  the  fashion  of  1848, 
would  declare  that  we  must  accept  the  Republic,  "Oh, 
not  the  red-hot,  you  know,  but  the  true,  the  real  one!" 
Or  he  would  wish  that  Cavaignac  had  been  elected 
President  at  the  September  balloting;  although  he 
himself  was  then  engraving — one  must  live,  after  all 
— a  portrait  of  Prince  Louis  Napoleon,  destined  for 
the  electoral  platform.  M.  and  Madame  Violette  let 
them  talk;  perhaps  even  they  did  not  always  pay 
attention  to  the  conversation.  When  it  was  dark  they 
held  each  other's  hands  and  gazed  at  the  stars. 

These  lovely,  cool,  autumnal  evenings,  upon  the  bal- 
cony, under  the  starry  heavens,  are  the  most  distant 
of  all  Amedee's  memories.  Then  there  was  a  break 
in  his  memory,  like  a  book  with  several  leaves  torn 
out,  after  which  he  recalls  many  sad  days. 

Winter  had  come,  and  they  no  longer  spent  their 
evenings  upon  the  balcony.  One  could  see  nothing 
now  through  the  windows  but  a  dull,  gray  sky.  Ame- 
dee's mother  was  ill  and  always  remained  in  her  bed. 
When  he  was  installed  near  the  bed,  before  a  little 
table,  cutting  out  with  scissors  the  hussars  from  a 
sheet  of  Epinal,  his  poor  mamma  almost  frightened 

[5] 


FRANCOIS  COPPEE 

him,  as  she  leaned  her  elbow  upon  the  pillow  and 
gazed  at  him  so  long  and  so  sadly,  while  her  thin  white 
hands  restlessly  pushed  back  her  beautiful,  disordered 
hair,  and  two  red  hectic  spots  burned  under  her  cheek- 
bones. 

It  was  not  she  who  now  came  to  take  him  from 
his  bed  in  the  morning,  but  an  old  woman  in  a  short 
jacket,  who  did  not  kiss  him,  and  who  smelled  hor- 
ribly of  snuff. 

His  father,  too,  did  not  pay  much  attention  to  him 
now.  When  he  returned  in  the  evening  from  the 
office  he  always  brought  bottles  and  little  packages 
from  the  apothecary.  Sometimes  he  was  accompanied 
by  the  physician,  a  large  man,  very  much  dressed  and 
perfumed,  who  panted  for  breath  after  climbing  the 
five  flights  of  stairs.  Once  Amedee  saw  this  stranger 
put  his  arms  around  his  mother  as  she  sat  in  her  bed, 
and  lay  his  head  for  a  long  time  against  her  back. 
The  child  asked,  "What  for,  mamma?" 

M.  Violette,  more  nervous  than  ever,  and  continually 
throwing  back  the  rebellious  lock  behind  his  ear,  would 
accompany  the  doctor  to  the  door  and  stop  there  to 
talk  with  him.  Then  Amedee's  mother  would  call  to 
him,  and  he  would  climb  upon  the  bed,  where  she 
would  gaze  at  him  with  her  bright  eyes  and  press  him 
to  her  breast,  saying,  in  a  sad  tone,  as  if  she  pitied 
him :  "  My  poor  little  Medee !  My  poor  little  Medee ! " 
Why  was  it?  What  did  it  all  mean? 

His  father  would  return  with  a  forced  smile  which 
was  pitiful  to  see. 

"Well,  what  did  the  doctor  say?" 

[6] 


"Oh,  nothing,  nothing!  You  are  much  better. 
Only,  my  poor  Lucie,  we  must  put  on  another  blister 
to-night." 

Oh,  how  monotonous  and  slow  these  days  were  to 
the  little  Amedee,  near  the  drowsy  invalid,  in  the  close 
room  smelling  of  drugs,  where  only  the  old  snuff-taker 
entered  once  an  hour  to  bring  a  cup  of  tea  or  put 
charcoal  upon  the  fire! 

Sometimes  their  neighbor,  Madame  Gerard,  would 
come  to  inquire  after  the  sick  lady. 

"Still  very  feeble,  my  good  Madame  Gerard,"  his 
mother  would  respond.  "Ah,  I  am  beginning  to  get 
discouraged." 

But  Madame  Gerard  would  not  let  her  be  despond- 
ent. 

"You  see,  Madame  Violette,  it  is  this  horrible,  end- 
less winter.  It  is  almost  March  now;  they  are  already 
selling  boxes  of  primroses  in  little  carts  on  the  side- 
walks. You  will  surely  be  better  as  soon  as  the  sun 
shines.  If  you  like,  I  will  take  little  Amedee  back 
with  me  to  play  with  my  little  girls.  It  will  amuse  the 
child." 

So  it  happened  that  the  good  neighbor  kept  the 
child  every  afternoon,  and  he  became  very  fond  of 
the  little  Gerard  children. 

Four  little  rooms,  that  is  all;  but  with  a  quantity  of 
old,  picturesque  furniture;  engravings,  casts,  and  pict- 
ures painted  by  comrades  were  on  the  walls;  the 
doors  were  always  open,  and  the  children  could  always 
play  where  they  liked,  chase  each  other  through  the 
apartments  or  pillage  them.  In  the  drawing-room, 

[7] 


FRANCOIS  COPPtiE 

which  had  been  transformed  into  a  work-room,  the 
artist  sat  upon  a  high  stool,  point  in  hand;  the  light 
from  a  curtainless  window,  sifting  through  the  trans- 
parent paper,  made  the  worthy  man's  skull  shine  as 
he  leaned  over  his  copper  plate.  He  worked  hard  all 
day;  with  an  expensive  house  and  two  girls  to  bring 
up,  it  was  necessary.  In  spite  of  his  advanced  opinions, 
he  continued  to  engrave  his  Prince  Louis — "A  rogue 
who  is  trying  to  juggle  us  out  of  a  Republic."  At  the 
very  most,  he  stopped  only  two  or  three  times  a  day 
to  smoke  his  Abd-el-Kader.  Nothing  distracted  him 
from  his  work;  not  even  the  little  ones,  who,  tired  of 
playing  ^their  piece  for  four  hands  upon  the  piano, 
would  organize,  with  Amedee,  a  game  of  hide-and- 
seek  close  by  their  father,  behind  the  old  Empire  sofa 
ornamented  with  bronze  lions'  heads.  But  Madame 
Gerard,  in  her  kitchen,  where  she  was  always  cooking 
something  good  for  dinner,  sometimes  thought  they 
made  too  great  an  uproar.  Then  Maria,  a  real  hoy- 
den, in  trying  to  catch  her  sister,  would  push  an  old 
armchair  against  a  Renaissance  chest  and  make  all 
the  Rouen  crockery  tremble. 

"Now  then,  now  then,  children!"  exclaimed  Madame 
Gerard,  from  the  depths  of  her  lair,  from  which  es- 
caped a  delicious  odor  of  bacon.  "Let  your  father 
have  a  little  quiet,  and  go  and  play  in  the  dining- 
room." 

They  obeyed;  for  there  they  could  move  chairs  as 
they  liked,  build  houses  of  them,  and  play  at  making 
calls.  Did  ever  anybody  have  such  wild  ideas  at  five 
years  of  age  as  this  Maria?  She  took  the  arm  of 

[8] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

Amedee,  whom  she  called  her  little  husband,  and  went 
to  call  upon  her  sister  and  show  her  her  little  child, 
a  pasteboard  doll  with  a  large  head,  wrapped  up  in  a 
napkin. 

"As  you  see,  Madame,  it  is  a  boy." 

"What  do  you  intend  to  make  of  him  when  he 
grows  up?"  asked  Louise,  who  lent  herself  compla- 
cently to  the  play,  for  she  was  ten  years  old  and  quite 
a  young  lady,  if  you  please. 

"Why,  Madame,"  replied  Maria,  gravely,  "he  will 
be  a  soldier." 

At  that  moment  the  engraver,  who  had  left  his 
bench  to  stretch  his  legs  a  little  and  to  light  his  Abd- 
el-Kader  for  the  third  time,  came  and  stood  at  the 
threshold  of  his  room.  Madame  Gerard,  reassured 
as  to  the  state  of  her  stew,  which  was  slowly  cooking — 
and  oh,  how  good  it  smelled  in  the  kitchen! — entered 
the  dining-room.  Both  looked  at  the  children,  so  comi- 
cal and  so  graceful,  as  they  made  their  little  grimaces! 
Then  the  husband  glanced  at  his  wife,  and  the  wife  at 
the  husband,  and  both  burst  out  into  hearty  laughter. 

There  never  was  any  laughter  in  the  apartment  of 
the  Violettes.  It  was  cough!  cough!  cough!  almost  to 
suffocation,  almost  to  death!  This  gentle  young 
woman  with  the  heavy  hair  was  about  to  die!  When 
the  beautiful  starry  evenings  should  come  again,  she 
would  no  longer  linger  on  the  balcony,  or  press  her 
husband's  hand  as  they  gazed  at  the  stars.  Little 
Amedee  did  not  understand  it;  but  he  felt  a  vague 
terror  of  something  dreadful  happening  in  the  house. 
Everything  alarmed  him  now.  He  was  afraid  of  the 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

old  woman  who  smelled  of  snuff,  and  who,  when  she 
dressed  him  in  the  morning,  looked  at  him  with  a  pity- 
ing air;  he  was  afraid  of  the  doctor,  who  climbed  the 
five  flights  of  stairs  twice  a  day  now,  and  left  a  whiff 
of  perfume  behind  him;  afraid  of  his  father,  who  did 
not  go  to  his  office  any  more,  whose  beard  was  often 
three  days  old,  and  who  feverishly  paced  the  little  par- 
lor, tossing  back  with  a  distracted  gesture  the  lock  of 
hair  behind  his  ear.  He  was  afraid  of  his  mother, 
alas!  of  his  mother,  whom  he  had  seen  that  evening, 
by  the  light  from  the  night-lamp,  buried  in  the  pil- 
lows, her  delicate  nose  and  chin  thrown  up,  and  who 
did  not  seem  to  recognize  him,  in  spite  of  her  wide- 
open  eyes,  when  his  father  took  her  child  in  his  arms 
and  leaned  over  her  with  him  that  he  might  kiss  her 
cold  forehead  covered  with  sweat! 

At  last  the  terrible  day  arrived,  a  day  that  Amedee 
never  will  forget,  although  he  was  then  a  very  small 
child. 

What  awakened  him  that  morning  was  his  father's 
embrace  as  he  came  and  took  him  from  his  bed.  His 
father's  eyes  were  wild  and  bloodshot  from  so  much 
crying.  Why  was  their  neighbor,  M.  Gerard,  there 
so  early  in  the  morning,  and  with  great  tears  rolling 
down  his  cheeks  too?  He  kept  beside  M.  Violette, 
as  if  watching  him,  and  patted  him  upon  the  back 
affectionately,  saying: 

"Now  then,  my  poor  friend!  Have  courage,  cour- 
age!" 

But  the  poor  friend  had  no  more.  He  let  M.  Gerard 
take  the  child  from  him,  and  then  his  head  fell  like  a 

[10] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

dead  person's  upon  the  good  engraver's  shoulder,  and 
he  began  to  weep  with  heavy  sobs  that  shook  his  whole 
body. 

"Mamma!  See  mamma!"  cried  the  little  Amede'e, 
full  of  terror. 

Alas!  he  never  will  see  her  again!  At  the  Gerards, 
where  they  carried  him  and  the  kind  neighbor  dressed 
him,  they  told  him  that  his  mother  had  gone  for  a 
long  time,  a  very  long  time;  that  he  must  love  his 
papa  very  much  and  think  only  of  him;  and  other 
things  that  he  could  not  understand  and  dared  not 
ask  the  meaning  of,  but  which  filled  him  with  con- 
sternation. 

It  was  strange!  The  engraver  and  his  wife  busied 
themselves  entirely  with  him,  watching  him  every 
moment.  The  little  ones,  too,  treated  him  in  a  sin- 
gular, almost  respectful  manner.  What  had  caused 
such  a  change?  Louise  did  not  open  her  piano,  and 
when  little  Maria  wished  to  take  her  "menagerie" 
from  the  lower  part  of  the  buffet,  Madame  Gerard 
said  sharply,  as  she  wiped  the  tears  from  her  eyes: 
"You  must  not  play  to-day." 

After  breakfast  Madame  Gerard  put  on  her  hat  and 
shawl  and  went  out,  taking  Amedee  with  her.  They 
got  into  a  carriage  that  took  them  through  streets 
that  the  child  did  not  know,  across  a  bridge  in  the 
middle  of  which  stood  a  large  brass  horseman,  with 
his  head  crowned  with  laurel,  and  stopped  before  a 
large  house  and  entered  with  the  crowd,  where  a  very 
agile  and  rapid  young  man  put  some  black  clothes  on 
Amede'e. 


FRANCOIS  COPPEE 

On  their  return  the  child  found  his  father  seated 
at  the  dining-room  table  with  M.  Gerard,  and  both  of 
them  were  writing  addresses  upon  large  sheets  of 
paper  bordered  with  black.  M.  Violette  was  not  cry- 
ing, but  his  face  showed  deep  lines  of  grief,  and  he 
let  his  lock  of  hair  fall  over  his  right  eye. 

At  the  sight  of  little  Amedee,  in  his  black  clothes, 
he  uttered  a  groan,  and  arose,  staggering  like  a  drunken 
man,  bursting  into  tears  again. 

Oh,  no!  he  never  will  forget  that  day,  nor  the  hor- 
rible next  day,  when  Madame  Gerard  came  and 
dressed  Jiim  in  the  morning  in  his  black  clothes,  while 
he  listened  to  the  noise  of  heavy  feet  and  blows  from 
a  hammer  in  the  next  room.  He  suddenly  remem- 
bered that  he  had  not  seen  his  mother  since  two  days 
before. 

"Mamma!    I  want  to  see  mamma!" 

It  was  necessary  then  to  try  to  make  him  under- 
stand the  truth.  Madame  Gerard  repeated  to  him 
that  he  ought  to  be  very  wise  and  good,  and  try  to 
console  his  father,  who  had  much  to  grieve  him;  for 
his  mother  had  gone  away  forever;  that  she  was  in 
heaven. 

In  heaven!  heaven  is  very  high  up  and  far  off.  If 
his  mother  was  in  heaven,  what  was  it  that  those  por- 
ters dressed  in  black  carried  away  in  the  heavy  box 
that  they  knocked  at  every  turn  of  the  staircase? 
What  did  that  solemn  carriage,  which  he  followed 
through  all  the  rain,  quickening  his  childish  steps, 
with  his  little  hand  tightly  clasped  in  his  father's,  carry 
away?  What  did  they  bury  in  that  hole,  from  which 

[12] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

an  odor  of  freshly  dug  earth  was  emitted — in  that  hole 
surrounded  by  men  in  black,  and  from  which  his 
father  turned  away  his  head  in  horror?  What  was  it 
that  they  hid  in  this  ditch,  in  this  garden  full  of  crosses 
and  stone  urns,  where  the  newly  budded  trees  shone 
in  the  March  sun  after  the  shower,  large  drops  of 
water  still  falling  from  their  branches  like  tears? 

His  mother  was  in  heaven !  On  the  evening  of  that 
dreadful  day  Amedee  dared  not  ask  to  "see  mamma" 
when  he  was  seated  before  his  father  at  the  table, 
where,  for  a  long  time,  the  old  woman  in  a  short 
jacket  had  placed  only  two  plates.  The  poor  widower, 
who  had  just  wiped  his  eyes  with  his  napkin,  had  put 
upon  one  of  the  plates  a  little  meat  cut  up  in  bits  for 
Amedee.  He  was  very  pale,  and  as  Amedee  sat  in 
his  high  chair,  he  asked  himself  whether  he  should 
recognize  his  mother's  sweet,  caressing  look,  some  day, 
in  one  of  those  stars  that  she  loved  to  watch,  seated 
upon  the  balcony  on  cool  September  nights,  pressing 
her  husband's  hand  in  the  darkness. 


[13] 


CHAPTER  II 

SAD   CHANGES 

?REES  are  like  men;  there  are  some 
that  have  no  luck.  A  genuinely  un- 
fortunate tree  was  the  poor  sycamore 
which  grew  in  the  playground  of  an 
institution  for  boys  on  the  Rue  de 
la  Grande  -  Chaumiere,  directed  by 
M.  Batifol. 

Chance  might  just  as  well  have 
made  it  grow  upon  the  banks  of  a  river,  upon  some 
pretty  bluff,  where  it  might  have  seen  the  boats  pass; 
or,  better  still,  upon  the  mall  in  some  garrison  village, 
where  it  could  have  had  the  pleasure  of  listening  twice 
a  week  to  military  music.  But,  no!  it  was  written  in 
the  book  of  fate  that  this  unlucky  sycamore  should 
lose  its  bark  every  summer,  as  a  serpent  changes  its 
skin,  and  should  scatter  the  ground  with  its  dead 
leaves  at  the  first  frost,  in  the  playground  of  the  Bati- 
fol institution,  which  was  a  place  without  any  dis- 
tractions. 

This  solitary  tree,  which  was  like  any  other  syca- 
more, middle-aged  and  without  any  singularities, 
ought  to  have  had  the  painful  feeling  that  it  served  in 
a  measure  to  deceive  the  public.  In  fact,  upon  the 
advertisement  of  the  Batifol  institution  (Cours  du 

[14] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

lycee  Henri  IV.  Preparation  au  baccalaureat  et  aux 
ecoles  de  VEtaf),  one  read  these  fallacious  words, 
"There  is  a  garden;"  when  in  reality  it  was  only  a 
vulgar  court  gravelled  with  stones  from  the  river,  with 
a  paved  gutter  in  which  one  could  gather  half  a  dozen 
of  lost  marbles,  a  broken  top,  and  a  certain  number 
of  shoe-nails,  and  after  recreation  hours  still  more. 
This  solitary  sycamore  was  supposed  to  justify  the 
illusion  and  fiction  of  the  garden  promised  in  the  ad- 
vertisement; but  as  trees  certainly  have  common 
sense,  this  one  should  have  been  conscious  that  it  was 
not  a  garden  of  itself. 

It  was  a  very  unjust  fate  for  an  inoffensive  tree 
which  never  had  harmed  anybody;  only  expanding, 
at  one  side  of  the  gymnasium  portico,  in  a  perfect 
rectangle  formed  by  a  prison-wall,  bristling  with  the 
glass  of  broken  bottles,  and  by  three  buildings  of  dis- 
tressing similarity,  showing,  above  the  numerous  doors 
on  the  ground  floor,  inscriptions  which  merely  to  read 
induced  a  yawn:  Hall  i,  Hall  2,  Hall  3,  Hall  4,  Stair- 
way A,  Stairway  B,  Entrance  to  the  Dormitories, 
Dining-room,  Laboratory. 

The  poor  sycamore  was  dying  of  ennui  in  this  dis- 
mal place.  Its  only  happy  seasons — the  recreation 
hours,  when  the  court  echoed  with  the  shouts  and  the 
laughter  of  the  boys — were  spoiled  for  it  by  the  sight 
of  two  or  three  pupils  who  were  punished  by  being 
made  to  stand  at  the  foot  of  its  trunk.  Parisian  birds, 
who  are  not  fastidious,  rarely  lighted  upon  the  tree, 
and  never  built  their  nests  there.  It  might  even  be 
imagined  that  this  disenchanted  tree,  when  the  wind 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

agitated  its  foliage,  would  charitably  say,  "Believe  me! 
the  place  is  good  for  nothing.  Go  and  make  love 
elsewhere!" 

In  the  shade  of  this  sycamore,  planted  under  an 
unlucky  star,  the  greater  part  of  Amedee's  infancy 
was  passed. 

M.  Violette  was  an  employe  of  the  Ministry,  and 
was  obliged  to  work  seven  hours  a  day,  one  or  two 
hours  of  which  were  devoted  to  going  wearily  through 
a  bundle  of  probably  superfluous  papers  and  docu- 
ments. The  rest  of  the  time  was  given  to  other  occu- 
pations as  varied  as  they  were  intellectual;  such  as 
yawning,  filing  his  nails,  talking  about  his  chiefs, 
groaning  over  the  slowness  of  promotion,  cooking  a 
potato  or  a  sausage  in  the  stove  for  his  luncheon,  read- 
ing the  newspaper  down  to  the  editor's  signature,  and 
advertisements  in  which  some  country  cure  expresses 
his  artless  gratitude  at  being  cured  at  last  of  an  obsti- 
nate disease.  In  recompense  for  this  daily  captivity, 
M.  Violette  received,  at  the  end  of  the  month,  a  sum 
exactly  sufficient  to  secure  his  household  soup  and 
beef,  with  a  few  vegetables. 

In  order  that  his  son  might  attain  such  a  distin- 
guished position,  M.  Violette's  father,  a  watch-maker 
in  Chartres,  had  sacrificed  everything,  and  died  pen- 
niless. The  Silvio  Pellico  official,  during  these  exas- 
perating and  tiresome  hours,  sometimes  regretted  not 
having  simply  succeeded  his  father.  He  could  see 
himself,  in  imagination,  in  the  light  little  shop  near 
the  cathedral,  with  a  magnifying-glass  fixed  in  his 
eye,  ready  to  inspect  some  farmer's  old  "turnip,"  and 

[16] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

suspended  over  his  bench  thirty  silver  and  gold 
watches  left  by  farmers  the  week  before,  who  would 
profit  by  the  next  market-day  to  come  and  get  them, 
all  going  together  with  a  merry  tick.  It  may  be  ques- 
tioned whether  a  trade  as  low  as  this  would  have  been 
fitting  for  a  young  man  of  education,  a  Bachelor  of  Arts, 
crammed  with  Greek  roots  and  quotations,  able  to 
prove  the  existence  of  God,  and  to  recite  without  hesi- 
tation the  dates  of  the  reigns  of  Nabonassar  and  of 
Nabopolassar.  This  watch-maker,  this  simple  artisan, 
understood  modern  genius  better.  This  modest  shop- 
keeper acted  according  to  the  democratic  law  and  fol- 
lowed the  instinct  of  a  noble  and  wise  ambition.  He 
made  of  his  son — a  sensible  and  intelligent  boy — a 
machine  to  copy  documents,  and  spend  his  days  guess- 
ing the  conundrums  in  the  illustrated  newspapers, 
which  he  read  as  easily  as  M.  Ledrain  would  decipher 
the  cuneiform  inscriptions  on  an  Assyrian  brick.  Also 
— an  admirable  result,  which  should  rejoice  the  old 
watch-maker's  shade — his  son  had  become  a  gentle- 
man, a  functionary,  so  splendidly  remunerated  by  the 
State  that  he  was  obliged  to  wear  patches  of  cloth,  as 
near  like  the  trousers  as  possible,  on  their  seat;  and 
his  poor  young  wife,  during  her  life,  had  always  been 
obliged,  as  rent-day  drew  near,  to  carry  the  soup- 
ladle  and  six  silver  covers  to  the  pawn-shop. 

At  all  events,  M.  Violette  was  a  widower  now,  and 
being  busy  all  day  was  very  much  embarrassed  with 
the  care  of  his  little  son.  His  neighbors,  the  Gerards, 
were  very  kind  to  Amedee,  and  continued  to  keep  him 
with  them  all  the  afternoon.  This  state  of  affairs 
2  [17] 


FRANCOIS 

could  not  always  continue,  and  M.  Violette  hesitated 
to  abuse  his  worthy  friends'  kindness  in  that  way. 

However,  Amedee  gave  them  little  trouble,  and 
Mamma  Gerard  loved  him  as  if  he  were  her  own. 
The  orphan  was  now  inseparable  from  little  Maria, 
a  perfect  little  witch,  who  became  prettier  every  day. 
The  engraver,  having  found  in  a  cupboard  the  old 
bearskin  cap  which  he  had  worn  as  a  grenadier  in 
the  National  Guard,  a  headdress  that  had  been  sup- 
pressed since  '48,  gave  it  .to  the  children.  What  a 
magnificent  plaything  it  was,  and  how  well  calculated 
to  excite  their  imagination !  It  was  immediately  trans- 
formed in  their  minds  into  a  frightfully  large  and 
ferocious  bear,  which  they  chased  through  the  apart- 
ment, lying  in  wait  for  it  behind  armchairs,  striking  at 
it  with  sticks,  and  puffing  out  their  little  cheeks  with 
all  their  might  to  say  "Bourn!"  imitating  the  report 
of  a  gun.  This  hunting  diversion  completed  the  de- 
struction of  the  old  furniture.  Tranquil  in  the  midst 
of  the  joyous  uproar  and  disorder,  the  engraver  was 
busily  at  work  finishing  off  the  broad  ribbon  of  the 
Legion  of  Honor,  and  the  large  bullion  epaulettes 
of  the  Prince  President,  whom,  as  a  suspicious  repub- 
lican and  foreseeing  the  coup  d'etat,  he  detested  with 
all  his  heart. 

"Truly,  Monsieur  Violette,"  said  Mother  Gerard 
to  the  employe,  when  he  came  for  his  little  son  upon 
his  return  from  the  office,  and  excused  himself  for 
the  trouble  that  the  child  must  give  his  neighbors, 
"truly,  I  assure  you,  he  does  not  disturb  us  in  the 
least.  Wait  a  little  before  you  send  him  to  school. 

[18] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

He  is  very  quiet,  and  if  Maria  did  not  excite  him  so — 
upon  my  word,  she  is  more  of  a  boy  than  he — your 
Amedee  would  always  be  looking  at  the  pictures. 
My  Louise  hears  him  read  every  day  two  pages  in  the 
Moral  Tales,  and  yesterday  he  amused  Gerard  by  tell- 
ing him  the  story  of  the  grateful  elephant.  He  can  go 
to  school  later — wait  a  little." 

But  M.  Violette  had  decided  to  send  Amedee  to  M. 
Batifol's.  "Oh,  yes,  as  a  day  scholar,  of  course!  It 
is  so  convenient;  not  two  steps'  distance.  This  will 
not  prevent  little  Amedee  from  seeing  his  friends  often. 
He  is  nearly  seven  years  old,  and  very  backward;  he 
hardly  knows  how  to  make  his  letters.  One  can  not 
begin  with  children  too  soon,"  and  much  more  to  the 
same  effect. 

This  was  the  reason  why,  one  fine  spring  day,  M. 
Violette  was  ushered  into  M.  Batifol's  office,  who,  the 
servant  said,  would  be  there  directly. 

M.  Batifol's  office  was  hideous.  In  the  three  book- 
cases which  the  master  of  the  house — a  snob  and  a 
greedy  schoolmaster — never  opened,  were  some  of 
those  books  that  one  can  buy  upon  the  quays  by  the 
running  yard;  for  example,  Laharpe's  Cours  de  Lit- 
tgrature,  and  an  endless  edition  of  Rollin,  whose  te- 
diousness  seems  to  ooze  out  through  their  bindings. 
The  cylindrical  office-table,  one  of  those  masterpieces 
of  veneered  mahogany  which  the  Faubourg  St.- 
Antoine  still  keeps  the  secret  of  making,  was  sur- 
mounted by  a  globe  of  the  world. 

Suddenly,  through  the  open  window,  little  Amedee 
saw  the  sycamore  in  the  yard.  A  young  blackbird, 

[19] 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

who  did  not  know  the  place,  came  and  perched  for 
an  instant  only  upon  one  of  its  branches. 

We  may  fancy  the  tree  saying  to  it: 

"What  are  you  doing  here?  The  Luxembourg  is 
only  a  short  distance  from  here,  and  is  charming. 
Children  are  there,  making  mud-pies,  nurses  upon  the 
seats  chattering  with  the  military,  lovers  promenading, 
holding  hands.  Go  there,  you  simpleton!" 

The  blackbird  flew  away,  and  the  university  tree, 
once  more  solitary  and  alone,  drooped  its  dispirited 
leaves.  Amedee,  in  his  confused  childish  desire  for 
information,  was  just  ready  to  ask  why  this  sycamore 
looked  so  morose,  when  the  door  opened  and  M.  Bati- 
fol  appeared.  The  master  of  the  school  had  a  severe 
aspect,  in  spite  of  his  almost  indecorous  name.  He 
resembled  a  hippopotamus  clothed  in  an  ample  black 
coat.  He  entered  slowly  and  bowed  in  a  dignified 
way  to  M.  Violette,  then  seated  himself  in  a  leather 
armchair  before  his  papers,  and,  taking  off  his  velvet 
skull-cap,  revealed  such  a  voluminous  round,  yellow 
baldness  that  little  Amede"e  compared  it  with  terror 
to  the  globe  on  the  top  of  his  desk. 

It  was  just  the  same  thing!  These  two  round  balls 
were  twins!  There  was  even  upon  M.  BatifoFs  cra- 
nium an  eruption  of  little  red  pimples,  grouped  almost 
exactly  like  an  archipelago  in  the  Pacific  Ocean. 

"Whom  have  I  the  honor ?"  asked  the  school- 
master, in  an  unctuous  voice,  an  excellent  voice  for 
proclaiming  names  at  the  distribution  of  prizes. 

M.  Violette  was  not  a  brave  man.  It  was  very 
foolish,  but  when  the  senior  clerk  called  him  into  his 

Lap] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

office  to  do  some  work,  he  was  always  seized  with  a 
sort  of  stammering  and  shaking  of  the  limbs.  A  per- 
son so  imposing  as  M.  Batifol  was  not  calculated  to 
give  him  assurance.  Amedee  was  timid,  too,  like  his 
father,  and  while  the  child,  frightened  by  the  resem- 
blance of  the  sphere  to  M.  Batifol's  bald  head,  was 
already  trembling,  M.  Violette,  much  agitated,  was 
trying  to  think  of  something  to  say,  consequently,  he 
said  nothing  of  any  account.  However,  he  ended  by 
repeating  almost  the  same  things  he  had  said  to  Mam- 
ma Gerard:  "My  son  is  nearly  seven  years  old,  and 
very  backward,  etc." 

The  teacher  appeared  to  listen  to  M.  Violette  with 
benevolent  interest,  inclining  his  geographical  cranium 
every  few  seconds.  In  reality,  he  was  observing  and 
judging  his  visitors.  The  father's  scanty  overcoat, 
the  rather  pale  face  of  the  little  boy,  all  betokened 
poverty.  It  simply  meant  a  day  scholar  at  thirty 
francs  a  month,  nothing  more.  So  M.  Batifol  short- 
ened the  "speech"  that  under  like  circumstances  he 
addressed  to  his  new  pupils. 

He  would  take  charge  of  his  "young  friend"  (thirty 
francs  a  month,  that  is  understood,  and  the  child  will 
bring  his  own  luncheon  in  a  little  basket)  who  would 
first  be  placed  in  an  elementary  class.  Certain  fathers 
prefer,  and  they  have  reason  to  do  so,  that  their  sons 
should  be  half -boarders,  with  a  healthful  and  abundant 
repast  at  noon.  But  M.  Batifol  did  not  insist  upon 
it.  His  young  friend  would  then  be  placed  in  the 
infant  class,  at  first;  but  he  would  be  prepared  there 
at  once,  ab  ovo,  one  day  to  receive  lessons  in  this  Uni- 

[21] 


FRANCOIS  COPPEE 

versity  of  France,  alma  parens  (instruction  in  foreign 
languages  not  included  in  the  ordinary  price,  naturally), 
which  by  daily  study,  competition  between  scholars 
(accomplishments,  such  as  dancing,  music,  and  fenc- 
ing, to  be  paid  for  separately;  that  goes  without  say- 
ing) prepare  children  for  social  life,  and  make  men 
and  citizens  of  them. 

M.  Violette  contented  himself  with  the  day  school 
at  thirty  francs,  and  for  a  good  reason.  The  affair 
was  settled.  Early  the  next  morning  Amedee  would 
enter  the  " ninth  preparatory." 

"Give  me  your  hand,  my  young  friend,"  said  the 
master,  as  father  and  son  arose  to  take  their  leave. 

Amedee  reached  out  his  hand,  and  M.  Batifol  took 
it  in  his,  which  was  so  heavy,  large,  and  cold  that 
the  child  shivered  at  the  contact,  and  fancied  he  was 
touching  a  leg  of  mutton  of  six  or  seven  pounds'  weight, 
freshly  killed,  and  sent  from  the  butcher's. 

Finally  they  left.  Early  the  next  morning,  Amedee, 
provided  with  a  little  basket,  in  which  the  old  snuff- 
taker  had  put  a  little  bottle  of  red  wine,  and  some 
sliced  veal,  and  jam  tarts,  presented  himself  at  the 
boarding-school,  to  be  prepared  without  delay  for  the 
teaching  of  the  alma  parens. 

The  hippopotamus  clothed  in  black  did  not  take  off 
his  skull-cap  this  time,  to  the  child's  great  regret,  for 
he  wished  to  assure  himself  if  the  degrees  of  latitude 
and  longitude  were  checked  off  in  squares  on  M.  Bat- 
ifol's  cranium  as  they  were  on  the  terrestrial  globe. 
He  conducted  his  pupil  to  his  class  at  once  and  pre- 
sented him  to  the  master. 

[22] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

"Here  is  a  new  day  scholar,  Monsieur  Ta vernier. 
You  will  find  out  how  far  advanced  he  is  in  reading 
and  writing,  if  you  please."  M.  Tavernier  was  a  tall 
young  man  with  a  sallow  complexion,  a  bachelor  who, 
had  he  been  living  like  his  late  father,  a  sergeant  of 
the  gendarmes,  in  a  pretty  house  surrounded  by  apple- 
trees  and  green  grass,  would  not,  perhaps,  have  had 
that  papier-mdche  appearance,  and  would  not  have 
been  dressed  at  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning  in  a  black 
coat  of  the  kind  we  see  hanging  in  the  Morgue.  M. 
Tavernier  received  the  newcomer  with  a  sickly  smile, 
which  disappeared  as  soon  as  M.  Batifol  left  the 
room. 

"Go  and  take  your  place  in  that  empty  seat  there, 
in  the  third  row,"  said  M.  Tavernier,  in  an  indifferent 
tone. 

He  deigned,  however,  to  conduct  Amedee  to  the 
seat  which  he  was  to  occupy.  Amedee' s  neighbor,  one 
of  the  future  citizens  preparing  for  social  life — several 
with  patches  upon  their  trousers — had  been  naughty 
enough  to  bring  into  class  a  handful  of  cockchafers. 
He  was  punished  by  a  quarter  of  an  hour's  standing 
up,  which  he  did  soon  after,  sulking  at  the  foot  of 
the  sycamore-tree  in  the  large  court. 

"You  will  soon  see  what  a  cur  he  is,"  whispered  the 
pupil  in  disgrace,  as  soon  as  the  teacher  had  returned  to 
his  seat. 

M.  Tavernier  struck  his  ruler  on  the  edge  of  his 
chair,  and,  having  reestablished  silence,  invited  pupil 
Godard  to  recite  his  lesson. 

Pupil  Godard,  who  was  a  chubby-faced  fellow  with 

[23] 


FRANCOIS  COPPEE 

sleepy  eyes,  rose  automatically  and  in  one  single  stream, 
like  a  running  tap,  recited,  without  stopping  to  take 
breath,  "The  Wolf  and  the  Lamb,"  rolling  off  La 
Fontaine's  fable  like  the  thread  from  a  bobbin  run 
by  steam. 

' '  The-strongest-reason-is-always-the-best-and-we- 
will-prove-it-at  -  once  -  a  -  lamb  -  was  -  quenching  -  his  - 
thirst-in-a-stream-of-pure-running-water— 

Suddenly  Godard  was  confused,  he  hesitated.  The 
machine  had  been  badly  oiled.  Something  obstructed 
the  bobbin. 

"In -a -stream -of -pure -running- water—  — in-a- 
stream— 

Then  he  stopped  short,  the  tap  was  closed.  Godard 
did  not  know  his  lesson,  and  he,  too,  was  condemned 
to  remain  on  guard  under  the  sycamore  during  recess. 

After  pupil  Godard  came  pupil  Grosdidier;  then 
Blanc,  then  Moreau  (Gaston),  then  Moreau  (Ernest), 
then  Malepert;  then  another,  and  another,  who  bab- 
bled with  the  same  intelligence  and  volubility,  with 
the  same  piping  voice,  this  cruel  and  wonderful  fable. 
It  was  as  irritating  and  monotonous  as  a  fine  rain. 
All  the  pupils  in  the  "ninth  preparatory"  were  dis- 
gusted for  fifteen  years,  at  least,  with  this  most  ex- 
quisite of  French  poems. 

Little  Amedee  wanted  to  cry;  he  listened  with  stu- 
pefaction blended  with  fright  as  the  scholars  by  turns 
unwound  their  bobbins.  To  think  that  to-morrow  he 
must  do  the  same!  He  never  would  be  able.  M. 
Tavemier  frightened  him  very  much,  too.  The  yellow- 
complexioned  usher,  seated  nonchalantly  in  his  arm- 

[24] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

chair,  was  not  without  pretension,  in  spite  of  his  black 
coat  with  the  "  take-me-out-of -pawn  "  air,  polished  his 
nails,  and  only  opened  his  mouth  at  times  to  utter  a 
reprimand  or  pronounce  sentence  of  punishment. 

This  was  school,  then!  Amedee  recalled  the  pleas- 
ant reading-lessons  that  the  eldest  of  the  G6rards  had 
given  him — that  good  Louise,  so  wise  and  serious  and 
only  ten  years  old,  pointing  out  his  letters  to  him  in 
a  picture  alphabet  with  a  knitting-needle,  always  so 
patient  and  kind.  The  child  was  overcome  at  the 
very  first  with  a  disgust  for  school,  and  gazed  through 
the  window  which  lighted  the  room  at  the  noiselessly 
moving,  large,  indented  leaves  of  the  melancholy 
sycamore. 


[25] 


CHAPTER  III 

PAPA  AND  MAMMA   GERARD 

NE,  two,  three  years  rolled  by  without 
anything  very  remarkable  happening 
to  the  inhabitants  of  the  fifth  story. 

The  quarter  had  not  changed,  and 
it  still  had  the  appearance  of  a  sub- 
urban faubourg.  They  had  just 
erected,  within  gunshot  of  the  house 
where  the  Violettes  and  Gerards  lived, 
a  large  five-story  building,  upon  whose  roof  still  trem- 
bled in  the  wind  the  masons'  withered  bouquets.  But 
that  was  all.  In  front  of  them,  on  the  lot  "For  Sale," 
enclosed  by  rotten  boards,  where  one  could  always 
see  tufts  of  nettles  and  a  goat  tied  to  a  stake,  and  upon 
the  high  wall  above  which  by  the  end  of  April  the 
lilacs  hung  in  their  perfumed  clusters,  the  rains  had 
not  effaced  this  brutal  declaration  of  love,  scraped  with 
a  knife  in  the  plaster:  "When  Melie  wishes  she  can 
have  me,"  and  signed  "Eugene." 

Three  years  had  passed,  and  little  Amedee  had 
grown  a  trifle.  At  that  time  a  child  born  in  the  centre 
of  Paris — for  example,  in  the  labyrinth  of  infected 
streets  about  the  Halles — would  have  grown  up  without 
having  any  idea  of  the  change  of  seasons  other  than  by 
the  state  of  the  temperature  and  the  narrow  strip  of 

[26] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

sky  which  he  could  see  by  raising  his  head.  Even  to- 
day certain  poor  children — the  poor  never  budge  from 
their  hiding-places — learn  of  the  arrival  of  winter  only 
by  the  odor  of  roasted  chestnuts;  of  spring,  by  the 
boxes  of  gillyflowers  in  the  fruiterer's  stall;  of  sum- 
mer, by  the  water-carts  passing,  and  of  autumn,  by 
the  heaps  of  oyster-shells  at  the  doors  of  wine-shops. 
The  broad  sky,  with  its  confused  shapes  of  cloud  ar- 
chitecture, the  burning  gold  of  the  setting  sun  behind 
the  masses  of  trees,  the  enchanting  stillness  of  moon- 
light upon  the  river,  all  these  grand  and  magnificent 
spectacles  are  for  the  delight  of  those  who  live  in  sub- 
urban quarters,  or  play  there  sometimes.  The  sons 
of  people  who  work  in  buttons  and  jet  spend  their 
infancy  playing  on  staircases  that  smell  of  lead,  or  in 
courts  that  resemble  wells,  and  do  not  suspect  that 
nature  exists.  At  the  outside  they  suspect  that  nature 
may  exist  when  they  see  the  horses  on  Palm  Sunday 
decorated  with  bits  of  boxwood  behind  each  ear. 
What  matters  it,  after  all,  if  the  child  has  imagination? 
A  star  reflected  in  a  gutter  will  reveal  to  him  an  im- 
mense nocturnal  poem;  and  he  will  breathe  all  the 
intoxication  of  summer  in  the  full-blown  rose  which 
the  grisette  from  the  next  house  lets  fall  from  her  hair. 

Amedee  had  had  the  good  fortune  of  being  born  in 
that  delicious  and  melancholy  suburb  of  Paris  which 
had  not  yet  become  "Haussmannized,"  and  was  full  of 
wild  and  charming  nooks. 

His  father,  the  widower,  could  not  be  consoled,  and 
tried  to  wear  out  his  grief  in  long  promenades,  going 
out  on  clear  evenings,  holding  his  little  boy  by  the 

[27] 


FRANCOIS  COPPEE 

hand,  toward  the  more  solitary  places.  They  followed 
those  fine  boulevards,  formerly  in  the  suburbs,  where 
there  were  giant  elms,  planted  in  the  time  of  Louis 
XIV,  ditches  full  of  grass,  ruined  palisades,  showing 
through  their  opening  market-gardens  where  melons 
glistened  in  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun.  Both  were 
silent;  the  father  lost  in  reveries,  Amedee  absorbed  in 
the  confused  dreams  of  a  child.  They  went  long  dis- 
tances, passing  the  Barriere  d'Enfer,  reaching  un- 
known parts,  which  produced  the  same  effect  upon  an 
inhabitant  of  Rue  Montmartre  as  the  places  upon  an 
old  map  of  the  world,  marked  with  the  mysterious 
words  Mare  ignotum,  would  upon  a  savant  of  the 
Middle  Ages.  There  were  many  houses  in  this  ancient 
suburb;  curious  old  buildings,  nearly  all  of  one  story. 

Sometimes  they  would  pass  a  public-house  painted  in 
a  sinister  wine-color;  or  else  a  garden  hedged  in  by 
acacias,  at  the  fork  of  two  roads,  with  arbors  and  a 
sign  consisting  of  a  very  small  windmill  at  the  end  of 
a  pole,  turning  in  the  fresh  evening  breeze.  It  was 
almost  country;  the  grass  grew  upon  the  sidewalks, 
springing  up  in  the  road  between  the  broken  pave- 
ments. A  poppy  flashed  here  and  there  upon  the  tops 
of  the  low  walls.  They  met  very  few  people;  now 
and  then  some  poor  person,  a  woman  in  a  cap  dragging 
along  a  crying  child,  a  workman  burdened  with  his 
tools,  a  belated  invalid,  and  sometimes  in  the  middle 
of  the  sidewalk,  in  a  cloud  of  dust,  a  flock  of  ex- 
hausted sheep,  bleating  desperately,  and  nipped  in  the 
legs  by  dogs  hurrying  them  toward  the  abattoir.  The 
father  and  son  would  walk  straight  ahead  until  it  was 

[28] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

dark  under  the  trees;  then  they  would  retrace  their 
steps,  the  sharp  air  stinging  their  faces.  Those  ancient 
hanging  street-lamps,  the  tragic  lanterns  of  the  time 
of  the  Terror,  were  suspended  at  long  intervals  in  the 
avenue,  mingling  their  dismal  twinkle  with  the  pale 
gleams  of  the  green  twilight  sky. 

These  sorrowful  promenades  with  his  melancholy 
companion  would  commonly  end  a  tiresome  day  at 
Batifol's  school.  Amedee  was  now  in  the  "seventh," 
and  knew  already  that  the  phrase,  "the  will  of  God," 
could  not  be  turned  into  Latin  by  bonitas  divina,  and 
that  the  word  cornu  was  not  declinable.  These  long, 
silent  hours  spent  at  his  school-desk,  or  beside  a  per- 
son absorbed  in  grief,  might  have  become  fatal  to  the 
child's  disposition,  had  it  not  been  for  his  good  friends, 
the  Gerards.  He  went  to  see  them  as  often  as  he  was 
able,  a  spare  hour  now  and  then,  and  most  of  the  day 
on  Thursdays.  The  engraver's  house  was  always  full 
of  good-nature  and  gayety,  and  Amedee  felt  com- 
fortable and  really  happy  there. 

The  good  Gerards,  besides  their  Louise  and  Maria, 
to  say  nothing  of  Amedee,  whom  they  looked  upon  as 
one  of  the  family,  had  now  taken  charge  of  a  fourth 
child,  a  little  girl,  named  Rosine,  who  was  precisely 
the  same  age  as  their  youngest. 

This  was  the  way  it  happened.  Above  the  Gerards, 
in  one  of  the  mansards  upon  the  sixth  floor,  lived  a 
printer  named  Combarieu,  with  his  wife  or  mistress — 
the  concierge  did  not  know  which,  nor  did  it  matter 
much.  The  woman  had  just  deserted  him,  leaving  a 
child  of  eight  years.  One  could  expect  nothing  better 

[29] 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

of  a  creature  who,  according  to  the  concierge,  fed  her 
husband  upon  pork-butcher's  meat,  to  spare  herself 
the  trouble  of  getting  dinner,  and  passed  the  entire 
day  with  uncombed  hair,  in  a  dressing-sacque,  reading 
novels,  and  telling  her  fortune  with  cards.  The  gro- 
cer's daughter  declared  she  had  met  her  one  evening 
at  a  dancing-hall,  seated  with  a  fireman  before  a  salad- 
bowl  full  of  wine,  prepared  in  the  French  fashion. 

During  the  day  Combarieu,  although  a  red-hot  Re- 
publican, sent  his  little  girl  to  the  Sisters;  but  he 
went  out  every  evening  with  a  mysterious  air  and  left 
the  child  alone.  The  concierge  even  uttered  in  a  low 
voice,  with  the  romantic  admiration  which  that  class 
of  people  have  for  conspirators,  the  terrible  word  "se- 
cret society,"  and  asserted  that  the  printer  had  a 
musket  concealed  under  his  straw  bed. 

These  revelations  were  of  a  nature  to  excite  M. 
Gerard's  sympathy  in  favor  of  his  neighbor,  for  the 
coup  d'etat  and  the  proclamation  of  the  Empire  had 
irritated  him  very  much.  Had  it  not  been  his  melan- 
choly duty  to  engrave,  the  day  after  the  second  of 
December — he  must  feed  his  family  first  of  all — a 
Bonapartist  allegory  entitled,  "The  Uncle  and  the 
Nephew,"  where  one  saw  France  extending  its  hand 
to  Napoleon  I  and  Prince  Louis,  while  soaring  above 
the  group  was  an  eagle  with  spreading  wings,  holding 
in  one  of  his  claws  the  cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honor  ? 

One  day  the  engraver  asked  his  wife,  as  he  lighted 
his  pipe — he  had  given  up  Abd-el-Kader  and  smoked 
now  a  Barbes — if  they  ought  not  to  interest  them- 
selves a  little  in  the  abandoned  child.  It  needed  noth- 

[30] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

ing  more  to  arouse  the  good  woman,  who  had  already 
said  more  than  once:  "What  a  pity!"  as  she  saw 
little  Rosine  waiting  for  her  father  in  the  lodge  of  the 
concierge,  asleep  in  a  chair  before  the  stove.  She 
coaxed  the  child  to  play  with  her  children.  Rosine 
was  very  pretty,  with  bright  eyes,  a  droll  little  Parisian 
nose,  and  a  mass  of  straw-colored  curly  hair  escaping 
from  her  cap.  The  little  rogue  let  fly  quite  often 
some  gutter  expression,  such  as  "Hang  it!"  or  "Tol-de- 
rol-dol!"  at  which  Madame  Gerard  would  exclaim, 
"What  do  I  hear,  Mademoiselle?"  but  she  was  intel- 
ligent and  soon  corrected  herself. 

One  Sunday  morning,  Combarieu,  having  learned 
of  their  kindness  to  his  child,  made  a  visit  to  thank 
them. 

Very  dark,  with  a  livid  complexion,  all  hair  and 
beard,  and  trying  to  look  like  the  head  of  Jesus  Christ, 
in  his  long  black  blouse  he  embodied  the  type  of  a 
club  conspirator,  a  representative  of  the  workingmen. 
A  Freemason,  probably;  a  solemn  drunkard,  who 
became  intoxicated  oftener  on  big  words  than  on  native 
wine,  and  spoke  in  a  loud,  pretentious  voice,  gazing 
before  him  with  large,  stupid  eyes  swimming  in  a  sort 
of  ecstasy;  his  whole  person  made  one  think  of  a 
boozy  preacher.  He  immediately  inspired  the  en- 
graver with  respect,  and  dazzled  him  by  the  fascina- 
tion which  the  audacious  exert  over  the  timid.  M. 
Gerard  thought  he  discerned  in  Combarieu  one  of 
those  superior  men  whom  a  cruel  fate  had  caused  to 
be  born  among  the  lower  class  and  in  whom  poverty 
had  stifled  genius. 


FRANCOIS  C 

Enlightened  as  to  the  artist's  political  preferences 
by  the  bowl  of  his  pipe,  Combarieu  complacently 
eulogized  himself.  Upon  his  own  admission  he  had 
at  first  been  foolish  enough  to  dream  of  a  universal 
brotherhood,  a  holy  alliance  of  the  people.  He  had 
even  written  poems  which  he  had  published  himself, 
notably  an  "Ode  to  Poland,"  and  an  "Epistle  to 
Be"ranger,"  which  latter  had  evoked  an  autograph  let- 
ter from  the  illustrious  song-writer.  But  he  was  no 
longer  such  a  simpleton. 

"When  one  has  seen  what  we  have  seen  during 
June,  and  on  the  second  of  December,  there  is  no 
longer  any  question  of  sentiment. "  Here  the  engraver, 
as  a  hospitable  host,  brought  a  bottle  of  wine  and 
two  glasses.  "No,  Monsieur  Gerard,  I  thank  you,  I 
take  nothing  between  my  meals.  The  workingmen 
have  been  deceived  too  often,  and  at  the  next  election 
we  shall  not  let  the  bourgeoisie  strangle  the  Republic." 
(M.  Gerard  had  now  uncorked  the  bottle.)  "  Only  a 
finger!  Enough!  Enough!  simply  so  as  not  to  refuse 
you.  While  waiting,  let  us  prepare  ourselves.  Just 
now  the  Eastern  question  muddles  us,  and  behold 
'  Badinguet, '  *  with  a  big  affair  upon  his  hands.  You 
have  some  wine  here  that  is  worth  drinking.  If  he 
loses  one  battle  he  is  done  for.  One  glass  more? 
Ah!  you  make  me  depart  from  my  usual  custom— 
absolutely  done  for.  But  this  time  we  shall  keep  our 
eyes  open.  No  half  measures!  We  will  return  to  the 
great  methods  of  'ninety -three — the  Committee  of 
Public  Safety,  the  Law  of  Suspects,  the  Revolutionary 

*A  nickname  given  to  Napoleon  III. 
[32] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

Tribunal,  every  damned  one  of  them !  and,  if  it  is  neces- 
sary, a  permanent  guillotine!  To  your  good  health!" 

So  much  energy  frightened  Father  Gerard  a  little; 
for  in  spite  of  his  Barbes  pipe-bowl  he  was  not  a 
genuine  red-hot  Republican.  He  dared  not  protest, 
however,  and  blushed  a  little  as  he  thought  that  the 
night  before  an  editor  had  proposed  to  him  to  engrave 
a  portrait  of  the  new  Empress,  very  decollete,  and 
showing  her  famous  shoulders,  and  that  he  had  not 
said  No;  for  his  daughters  needed  new  shoes,  and 
his  wife  had  declared  the  day  before  that  she  had  not 
a  gown  to  put  on. 

So  for  several  months  he  had  four  children — Ame- 
d£e,  Louise,  Maria,  and  little  Rose  Combarieu — to 
make  a  racket  in  his  apartment.  Certainly  they  were 
no  longer  babies;  they  did  not  play  at  making  calls 
nor  chase  the  old  fur  hat  around  the  room;  they  were 
more  sensible,  and  the  old  furniture  had  a  little  rest. 
And  it  was  time,  for  all  the  chairs  were  lame,  two  of 
the  larger  ones  had  lost  an  arm  each,  and  the  Empire 
sofa  had  lost  the  greater  part  of  its  hair  through  the 
rents  in  its  dark-green  velvet  covering.  The  unfor- 
tunate square  piano  had  had  no  pity  shown  it;  more 
out  of  tune  and  asthmatic  than  ever,  it  was  now  al- 
ways open,  and  one  could  read  above  the  yellow  and 
worn-out  keyboard  a  once  famous  name — "Sebastian 
Erard,  Manufacturer  of  Pianos  and  Harps  for  S.A.R. 
Madame  la  Duchesse  de  Berri."  Not  only  Louise, 
the  eldest  of  the  Gerards — a  large  girl  now,  having 
been  to  her  first  communion,  dressing  her  hair  in 
bands,  and  wearing  white  waists — not  only  Louise, 
3  [33] 


FRANCOIS  COPPEE 

who  had  become  a  good  musician,  had  made  the  piano 
submit  to  long  tortures,  but  her  sister  Maria,  and 
Amedee  also,  already  played  the  Bouquet  de  Bal  or 
Papa,  les  p'tits  bateaux.  Rosine,  too,  in  her  character 
of  street  urchin,  knew  all  the  popular  songs,  and  spent 
entire  hours  in  picking  out  the  airs  with  one  ringer 
upon  the  old  instrument. 

Ah !  the  songs  of  those  days,  the  last  of  romanticism, 
the  make-believe  Orientates;  Odes  and  Ballads,  by  the 
dozen ;  Conies  d'Espagne  et  d'ltalie,  with  their  pages, 
turrets,  chatelaines;  bull-fighters,  Spanish  ladies;  viv- 
andieres,  beguiled  away  from  their  homes  under  the 
pale  of  the  church,  "near  a  stream  of  running  water, 
by  a  gay  and  handsome  chevalier,"  and  many  other 
such  silly  things — Amedee  will  remember  them  always! 
They  bring  back  to  him,  clearly  and  strongly,  certain 
happy  hours  in  his  childhood!  They  make  him  smell 
again  at  times  even  the  odor  that  pervaded  the  Ge- 
rards'  house.  A  mule-driver's  song  will  bring  up  be- 
fore his  vision  the  engraver  working  at  his  plate  before 
the  curtainless  window  on  a  winter's  day.  It  snows 
in  the  streets,  and  large  white  flakes  are  slowly  falling 
behind  the  glass;  but  the  room,  ornamented  with  pic- 
tures and  busts,  is  lighted  and  heated  by  a  bright 
coke  fire.  Amedee  can  see  himself  seated  in  a  corner 
by  the  fire,  learning  by  heart  a  page  of  the  "Epitome" 
which  he  must  recite  the  next  morning  at  M.  Batifol's. 
Maria  and  Rosine  are  crouched  at  his  feet,  with  a  box 
of  glass  beads,  which  they  are  stringing  into  a  neck- 
lace. It  was  comfortable;  the  whole  apartment 
smelled  of  the  engraver's  pipe,  and  in  the  dining- 

[34] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

room,  whose  door  is  half  opened,  Louise  is  at  the 
piano,  singing,  in  a  fresh  voice,  some  lines  where  "  Cas- 
tilla"  rhymes  with  "mantilla,"  and  "Andalousie" 
with  "jealousy,"  while  her  agile  fingers  played  on  the 
old  instrument  an  accompaniment  supposed  to  imitate 
bells  and  castanets. 

Or  perhaps  it  is  a  radiant  morning  in  June,  and  they 
are  in  the  dining-room;  the  balcony  door  is  open 
wide,  and  a  large  hornet  buzzes  loudly  in  the  vine. 
Louise  is  still  at  the  piano;  she  is  singing  this  time, 
and  trying  to  reach  the  low  tones  of  a  dramatic  ro- 
mance where  a  Corsican  child  is  urged  on  to  vengeance 
by  his  father: 

Tiens,  prends  ma  carabine! 
Sur  toi  veillera  Dieu 

This  is  a  great  day,  the  day  when  Mamma  Gerard 
makes  her  gooseberry  preserves.  There  is  a  large 
basin  already  full  of  it.  on  the  table.  What  a  delicious 
odor!  A  perfume  of  roses  mingled  with  that  of  warm 
sugar.  Maria  and  Rosine  have  just  slipped  into  the 
kitchen,  the  gourmands!  But  Louise  is  a  serious  per- 
son, and  will  not  interrupt  her  singing  for  such  a 
trifle.  She  continues  to  sing  in  a  low  voice:  and  at 
the  moment  when  Amedee  stands  speechless  with  ad- 
miration before  her,  as  she  is  scolding  in  a  terrible  tone 
and  playing  dreadful  chords,  lo  and  behold !  here  come 
the  children,  both  with  pink  moustaches,  and  licking 
their  lips  voluptuously. 

Ah!  these  were  happy  hours  to  Amedee.  They  con- 
soled him  for  the  interminable  days  at  M.  Batifol's. 

[35] 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

Having  passed  the  ninth  preparatory  grade,  under 
the  direction  of  the  indolent  M.  Tavernier,  always 
busy  polishing  his  nails,  like  a  Chinese  mandarin,  the 
child  had  for  a  professor  in  the  eighth  grade  Pere 
Montandeuil,  a  poor  fellow  stupefied  by  thirty  years 
of  teaching,  who  secretly  employed  all  his  spare  hours 
in  composing  five-act  tragedies,  and  who,  by  dint  of 
carrying  to  and  going  for  his  manuscripts  at  the  Odeon, 
ended  by  marrying  the  stage-doorkeeper's  daughter. 
In  the  seventh  grade  Amede'e  groaned  under  the  tyranny 
of  M.  Prudhommod,  a  man  from  the  country,  with 
a  smattering  of  Latin  and  a  terribly  violent  temper, 
throwing  at  the  pupils  the  insults  of  a  plowboy.  Now 
he  had  entered  the  sixth  grade,  under  M.  Bance,  an 
unfortunate  fellow  about  twenty  years  old,  ugly,  lame, 
and  foolishly  timid,  whom  M.  Batifol  reproached  se- 
verely with  not  having  made  himself  respected,  and 
whose  eyes  filled  with  tears  every  morning  when,  upon 
entering  the  schoolroom,  he  was  obliged  to  efface  with  a 
cloth  a  caricature  of  himself  made  by  some  of  his  pupils. 

Everything  in  M.  BatifoPs  school — the  grotesque 
and  miserable  teachers,  the  ferocious  and  cynical 
pupils,  the  dingy,  dusty,  and  ink-stained  rooms — sad- 
dened and  displeased  Amedee.  Although  very  in- 
telligent, he  was  disgusted  with  the  sort  of  instruction 
there,  which  was  served  out  in  portions,  like  soldier's 
rations,  and  would  have  lost  courage  but  for  his  little 
friend,  Louise  Gerard,  who  out  of  sheer  kindness  con- 
stituted herself  his  school-mistress,  guiding  and  in- 
spiriting him,  and  working  hard  at  the  rudiments  of 
L'homond's  Grammar  and  Alexandre's  Dictionary,  to 

[36] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

help  the  child  struggle  with  his  De  Viris.  Unfortu- 
nate indeed  is  he  who  has  not  had,  during  his  infancy, 
a  petticoat  near  him — the  sweet  influence  of  a  woman. 
He  will  always  have  something  coarse  in  his  mind  and 
hard  in  his  heart.  Without  this  excellent  and  kind 
Louise,  Amedee  would  have  been  exposed  to  this  dan- 
ger. His  mother  was  dead,  and  M.  Violette,  alas! 
was  always  overwhelmed  with  his  grief,  and,  it  must 
be  admitted,  somewhat  neglected  his  little  son. 

The  widower  could  not  be  consoled.  Since  his 
wife's  death  he  had  grown  ten  years  older,  and  his 
refractory  lock  of  hair  had  become  perfectly  white. 
His  Lucie  had  been  the  sole  joy  in  his  commonplace 
and  obscure  life.  She  was  so  pretty,  so  sweet!  such  a 
good  manager,  dressing  upon  nothing,  and  making 
things  seem  luxurious  with  only  one  flower!  M.  Vio- 
lette existed  only  on  this  dear  and  cruel  souvenir,  liv- 
ing his  humble  idyll  over  again  in  his  mind. 

He  had  had  six  years  of  this  happiness.  One  of  his 
comrades  took  him  to  pass  an  evening  with  an  old 
friend  who  was  captain  in  the  Invalides.  The  worthy 
man  had  lost  an  arm  at  Waterloo;  he  was  a  relative 
of  Lucie,  a  good-natured  old  fellow,  amiable  and  lively, 
delighting  in  arranging  his  apartments  into  a  sort  of 
Bonapartist  chapel  and  giving  little  entertainments 
with  cake  and  punch,  while  Lucie's  mother,  a  cousin 
of  the  captain,  did  the  honors.  M.  Violette  immedi- 
ately observed  the  young  girl,  seated  under  a  "Bataille 
des  Pyramides"  with  two  swords  crossed  above  it,  a 
carnation  in  her  hair.  It  was  in  midsummer,  and 
through  the  open  window  one  could  see  the  magnifi- 

[37] 

377309 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

cent  moonlight,  which  shone  upon  the  esplanade  and 
made  the  huge  cannon  shine.  They  were  playing 
charades,  and  when  it  came  Lucie's  turn  to  be  ques- 
tioned among  all  the  guests,  M.  Violette,  to  relieve  her 
of  her  embarrassment,  replied  so  awkwardly  that  they 
all  exclaimed,  "Now,  then,  that  is  cheating!"  With 
what  nai've  grace  and  bashful  coquetry  she  served  the 
tea,  going  from  one  table  to  another,  cup  in  hand,  fol- 
lowed by  the  one-armed  captain  with  silver  epaulets, 
carrying  the  plum-cake!  In  order  to  see  her  again, 
M.  Violette  paid  the  captain  visit  after  visit.  But  the 
greater  part  of  the  time  he  saw  only  the  old  soldier, 
who  told  him  of  his  victories  and  conquests,  of  the 
attack  of  the  redoubt  at  Borodino,  and  the  frightful 
swearing  of  the  dashing  Murat,  King  of  Naples,  as  he 
urged  the  squadrons  on  to  the  rescue.  At  last,  one 
beautiful  Sunday  in  autumn,  he  found  himself  alone 
with  the  young  girl  in  the  private  garden  of  the  veteran 
of  the  Old  Guard.  He  seated  himself  beside  Lucie 
on  a  stone  bench:  he  told  her  his  love,  with  the  pro- 
found gaze  of  the  Little  Corporal,  in  bronzed  plaster, 
resting  upon  them;  and,  full  of  delicious  confusion, 
she  replied,  "Speak  to  mamma,"  dropping  her  be- 
wildered eyes  and  gazing  at  the  bed  of  china-asters, 
whose  boxwood  border  traced  the  form  of  a  cross  of 
the  Legion  of  Honor. 

And  all  this  was  effaced,  lost  forever!  The  captain 
was  dead;  Lucie's  mother  was  dead,  and  Lucie  her- 
self, his  beloved  Lucie,  was  dead,  after  giving  him  six 
years  of  cloudless  happiness. 

Certainly,  he  would  never  marry  again.  Oh,  never! 

[38] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

No  woman  had  ever  existed  or  ever  would  exist  for 
him  but  his  poor  darling,  sleeping  in  the  Montpar- 
nasse  Cemetery,  whose  grave  he  visited  every  Sunday 
with  a  little  watering-pot  concealed  under  his  coat. 

He  recalled,  with  a  shiver  of  disgust,  how,  a  few 
months  after  Lucie's  death,  one  stifling  evening  in 
July,  he  was  seated  upon  a  bench  in  the  Luxembourg, 
listening  to  the  drums  beating  a  retreat  under  the  trees, 
when  a  woman  came  and  took  a  seat  beside  him  and 
looked  at  him  steadily.  Surprised  by  her  significant 
look,  he  replied,  to  the  question  that  she  addressed  to 
him,  timidly  and  at  the  same  time  boldly:  "So  this  is 
the  way  that  you  take  the  air?"  And  when  she  ended 
by  asking  him,  "Come  to  my  house,"  he  had  followed 
her.  But  he  had  hardly  entered  when  the  past  all 
came  back  to  him,  and  he  felt  a  stifled  feeling  of  dis- 
tress. Falling  into  a  chair,  he  sobbed,  burying  his 
face  in  his  hands.  His  grief  was  so  violent  that,  by  a 
feminine  instinct  of  pity,  the  wretched  creature  took 
his  head  in  her  arms,  saying,  in  a  consoling  tone, 
"There,  cry,  cry,  it  will  do  you  good!"  and  rocked 
him  like  an  infant.  At  last  he  disengaged  himself 
from  this  caress,  which  made  him  ashamed  of  himself, 
and  throwing  what  little  money  he  had  about  him 
upon  the  top  of  the  bureau,  he  went  away  and  re- 
turned to  his  home,  where  he  went  hastily  to  bed  and 
wept  to  his  heart's  content,  as  he  gnawed  his  pillow. 
Oh,  horrible  memories! 

No!  never  a  wife,  no  mistress,  nothing!  Now  his 
grief  was  his  wife,  and  lived  with  him. 

The  widower's  morning  awakening  was  frightful 

[39] 


FRANgOIS  COPPEE 

above  all  things  else — his  awakening  in  the  large  bed 
that  now  had  but  one  pillow.  It  was  there  that  he 
had  once  had  the  exquisite  pleasure  of  watching  his 
dear  Lucie  every  morning  when  asleep ;  for  she  did  not 
like  to  get  up  early,  and  sometimes  he  had  jokingly 
scolded  her  for  it.  What  serenity  upon  this  delicate, 
sweet  face,  with  its  closed  eyes,  nestling  among  her 
beautiful,  disordered  hair!  How  chaste  this  lovely 
young  wife  was  in  her  unconstraint !  She  had  thrown 
one  of  her  arms  outside  of  the  covering,  and  the  neck 
of  her  nightrobe,  having  slipped  down,  showed  such 
a  pure  white  shoulder  and  delicate  neck.  He  leaned 
over  .the  half -opened  mouth,  which  exhaled  a  warm 
and  living  odor,  something  like  the  perfume  of  a  flower, 
to  inhale  it,  and  a  tender  pride  swept  over  him  when 
he  thought  that  she  was  his,  his  wife,  this  delicious 
creature  who  was  almost  a  child  yet,  and  that  her  heart 
was  given  to  him  forever.  He  could  not  resist  it;  he 
touched  his  young  wife's  lips  with  his  own.  She 
trembled  under  the  kiss  and  opened  her  eyes,  when 
the  astonishment  of  the  awakening  was  at  once  trans- 
formed into  a  happy  smile  as  she  met  her  husband's 
glance.  Oh,  blissful  moment!  But  in  spite  of  all, 
one  must  be  sensible.  He  recalled  that  the  milkmaid 
had  left  at  daybreak  her  pot  of  milk  at  the  door  of 
their  apartment;  that  the  fire  was  not  lighted,  and 
that  he  must  be  at  the  office  early,  as  the  time  for 
promotions  was  drawing  near.  Giving  another  kiss  to 
the  half-asleep  Lucic,  he  said  to  her,  in  a  coaxing 
tone,  "Now  then,  Lucie,  my  child,  it  is  half -past  eight. 
Up,  up  with  you,  lazy  little  one!" 

[40] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

How  could  he  console  himself  for  such  lost  happi- 
ness? He  had  his  son,  yes — and  he  loved  him  very 
much — but  the  sight  of  Amede'e  increased  M.  Violette's 
grief;  for  the  child  grew  to  look  more  like  his  mother 
every  day. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  DEMON  ABSINTHE 

[REE  or  four  times  a  year  M.  Vio- 
lette,  accompanied  by  his  son,  paid 
a  visit  to  an  uncle  of  his  deceased 
wife,  whose  heir  Amedee  might  some 
day  become. 

M.  Isidore  Gaufre  had  founded 
and  made  successful  a  large  house 
for  Catholic  books  and  pictures,  to 
which  he  had  added  an  important  agency  for  the  sale 
of  all  kinds  of  religious  objects.  This  vast  establish- 
ment was  called,  by  a  stroke  of  genius  of  its  proprie- 
tor, "Bon  Marche  des  Paroisses,"  and  was  famous 
among  all  the  French  clergy.  At  last  it  occupied  the 
principal  part  of  the  house  and  all  the  out-buildings  of 
an  old  hotel  on  the  Rue  Servandoni,  constructed  in  the 
pompous  and  magnificent  style  of  the  latter  part  of  the 
seventeenth  century.  He  did  a  great  business  there. 

All  day  long,  priests  and  clerical-looking  gentlemen 
mounted  the  long  flight  of  steps  that  led  to  a  spacious 
first  floor,  lighted  by  large,  high  windows  surmounted 
by  grotesque  heads.  There  the  long-bearded  mission- 
aries came  to  purchase  their  cargoes  of  glass  beads  or 
imitation  coral  rosaries,  before  embarking  for  the  East, 
or  the  Gaboon,  to  convert  the  negroes  and  the  Chinese. 

[42] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

The  member  of  the  third  estate,  draped  in  a  long 
chocolate-colored,  straight  frock-coat,  holding  a  gigan- 
tic umbrella  under  his  arm,  procured,  dirt  cheap  and 
by  the  thousand,  pamphlets  of  religious  tenets.  The 
country  curate,  visiting  Paris,  arranged  for  the  imme- 
diate delivery  of  a  remonstrance,  in  electrotype,  Byzan- 
tine style,  signing  a  series  of  long-dated  bills,  contract- 
ing, by  zeal  supplemented  by  some  ready  cash,  to  fulfil 
his  liabilities,  through  the  generosity  of  the  faithful 
ones. 

There,  likewise,  a  young  director  of  consciences 
came  to  look  for  some  devotional  work — for  example, 
the  i2mo  entitled  "Widows'  Tears  Wiped  Away,"  by 
St.  Francois  de  Sales — for  some  penitent.  The  repre- 
sentative from  some  deputation  from  a  devoutly  Cath- 
olic district  would  solicit  a  reduction  upon  a  purchase 
of  the  "Twelve  Stations  of  the  Cross,"  hideously 
daubed,  which  he  proposed  to  present  to  the  parishes 
which  his  adversaries  had  accused  of  being  Voltairians. 
A  brother  of  the  Christian  Doctrine,  or  a  sister  of  St. 
Vincent  de  Paul,  would  bargain  for  catechisms  for  their 
schools.  From  time  to  time,  even  a  prince  of  the 
church,  a  bishop  with  aristocratic  mien,  enveloped  in 
an  ample  gown,  with  his  hat  surrounded  with  a  green 
cord  and  golden  tassels,  would  mysteriously  shut  him- 
self up  in  M.  Isidore  Gaufre's  office  for  an  hour;  and 
then  would  be  reconducted  to  the  top  of  the  steps  by 
the  cringing  proprietor,  profuse  with  his  "Monseign- 
eur,"  and  obsequiously  bowing  under  the  haughty 
benediction  of  two  fingers  in  a  violet  glove. 

It  was  certainly  not  from  sympathy  that  M.  Violette 
[43] 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

had  kept  up  his  relations  with  his  wife's  uncle;  for  M. 
Gaufre,  who  was  servilely  polite  to  all  those  in  whom 
he  had  an  interest,  was  usually  disdainful,  sometimes 
even  insolent,  to  those  who  were  of  no  use  to  him. 
During  his  niece's  life  he  had  troubled  himself  very 
little  about  her,  and  had  given  her  for  a  wedding 
present  only  an  ivory  crucifix  with  a  shell  for  holy 
water,  such  as  he  sold  by  the  gross  to  be  used  in  con- 
vents. A  self-made  man,  having  already  amassed— 
so  they  said — a  considerable  fortune,  M.  Gaufre  held 
in  very  low  estimation  this  poor  devil  of  a  common- 
place employe  whose  slow  advancement  was  doubtless 
due  to  the  fact  that  he  was  lazy  and  incapable.  From 
the  greeting  that  he  received,  M.  Violette  suspected  the 
poor  opinion  that  M.  Gaufre  had  of  him.  If  he  went 
there  in  spite  of  his  natural  pride  it  was  only  on  his 
son's  account.  For  M.  Gaufre  was  rich,  and  he  was 
not  young.  Perhaps — who  could  tell? — he  might  not 
forget  Ame'dee,  his  nephew,  in  his  will  ?  It  was  neces- 
sary for  him  to  see  the  child  occasionally,  and  M.  Vi- 
olette, in  pursuance  of  his  paternal  duty,  condemned 
himself,  three  or  four  times  a  year,  to  the  infliction  of 
a  visit  at  the  "Bon  Marche"  des  Paroisses." 

The  hopes  that  M.  Violette  had  formed  as  to  his 
son's  inheriting  from  M.  Gaufre  were  very  problem- 
atical; for  the  father,  whom  M.  Gaufre  had  not 
been  able  to  avoid  receiving  at  his  table  occasionally, 
had  been  struck,  even  shocked,  by  the  familiar  and 
despotic  tone  of  the  old  merchant's  servant,  a  superb 
Normandy  woman  of  about  twenty-five  years,  answer- 
ing to  the  royal  name  of  Be're'nice.  The  impertinent 

[44] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

ways  of  this  robust  woman  betrayed  her  position  in 
her  master's  house,  as  much  as  the  diamonds  that 
glittered  in  her  ears.  This  creature  would  surely 
watch  the  will  of  her  patron,  a  sexagenarian  with  an 
apoplectic  neck,  which  became  the  color  of  dregs  of 
wine  after  a  glass  of  brandy. 

M.  Gaufre,  although  very  practical  and  a  church- 
warden at  St.  Sulpice,  had  always  had  a  taste  for 
liaisons.  His  wife,  during  her  life — he  had  been  a 
widower  for  a  dozen  years — had  been  one  of  those  un- 
fortunate beings  of  whom  people  said,  "That  poor 
lady  is  to  be  pitied;  she  never  can  keep  a  servant." 
She  had  in  vain  taken  girls  from  the  provinces,  without 
beauty  and  certified  to  be  virtuous.  One  by  one — a 
Flemish  girl,  an  Alsatian,  three  Nivernaise,  two  from 
Picardy;  even  a  young  girl  from  Beauce,  hired  on  ac- 
count of  her  certificate  as  "the  best-behaved  girl  in  the 
village" — they  were  unsparingly  devoured  by  the  min- 
otaur  of  the  Rue  Servandoni.  All  were  turned  out  of 
doors,  with  a  conscientious  blow  in  the  face,  by  the 
justly  irritated  spouse.  When  he  became  a  widower 
he  gave  himself  up  to  his  liaisons  in  perfect  security, 
but  without  scandal,  of  course,  as  to  his  passion  for 
servants.  New  country-girls,  wearing  strange  head- 
dresses, responded  favorably,  in  various  patois,  to  his 
propositions.  An  Alsatian  bow  reigned  six  months;  a 
Breton  cap  more  than  a  year;  but  at  last  what  must 
inevitably  take  place  happened.  The  beautiful  Be*r- 
e"nice  definitely  bound  with  fetters  of  iron  the  old  lib- 
ertine. She  was  now  all-powerful  in  the  house,  where 
she  reigned  supreme  through  her  beauty  and  her  talent 

[45] 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

for  cooking;  and  as  she  saw  her  master's  face  grow 
more  congested  at  each  repast,  she  made  her  prepara- 
tions for  the  future.  Who  could  say  but  that  M. 
Gaufre,  a  real  devotee  after  all,  would  develop  con- 
scientious scruples  some  day,  and  end  in  a  marriage, 
in  extremis  ? 

M.  Violette  knew  all  this;  nevertheless  it  was  im- 
portant that  Amedee  should  not  be  forgotten  by  his 
old  relative,  and  sometimes,  though  rarely,  he  would 
leave  his  office  a  little  earlier  than  usual,  call  for  his 
son  as  he  left  the  Batifol  boarding-school,  and  take  him 
to  the  Rue  Servandoni. 

The  large  drawing-rooms,  transformed  into  a  shop, 
where  one  could  still  see,  upon  forgotten  panels,  rococo 
shepherds  offering  doves  to  their  shepherdesses,  were 
always  a  new  subject  of  surprise  to  little  Amedee. 
After  passing  through  the  book-shop,  where  thousands 
of  little  volumes  with  figured  gray  and  yellow  covers 
crowded  the  shelves,  and  boys  in  ecru  linen  blouses 
were  rapidly  tying  up  bundles,  one  entered  the  jewel- 
lery department.  There,  under  beautiful  glass  cases, 
sparkled  all  the  glittering  display  and  showy  luxury 
of  the  Church,  golden  tabernacles  where  the  Paschal 
Lamb  reposed  in  a  flaming  triangle,  censers  with  quad- 
ruple chains,  stoles  and  chasubles,  heavy  with  em- 
broidery, enormous  candelabra,  ostensories  and  drink- 
ing-cups  incrusted  with  enamel  and  false  precious 
stones — before  all  these  splendors  the  child,  who  had 
read  the  Arabian  Nights,  believed  that  he  had  entered 
Aladdin's  cave,  or  Aboul-Cassem's  pit.  From  this 
glittering  array  one  passed,  without  transition,  into 

[46] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

the  sombre  depot  of  ecclesiastical  vestments.  Here  all 
was  black.  One  saw  only  piles  of  cassocks  and  pyra- 
mids of  black  hats.  Two  manikins,  one  clothed  in  a 
cardinal's  purple  robe,  the  other  in  episcopalian  violet, 
threw  a  little  color  over  the  gloomy  show. 

But  the  large  hall  with  painted  statues  amazed 
Amedee.  They  were  all  there,  statues  of  all  the  saints 
in  little  chapels  placed  promiscuously  upon  the  shelves 
in  rows. 

No  more  hierarchy.  The  Evangelist  had  for  a 
neighbor  a  little  Jesuit  saint — an  upstart  of  yesterday. 
The  unfortunate  Fourier  had  at  his  side  the  Virgin 
Mary.  The  Saviour  of  men  elbowed  St.  Labre.  They 
were  of  plaster  run  into  moulds,  or  roughly  carved  in 
wood,  and  were  colored  with  paint  as  glaring  as  the 
red  and  blue  of  a  barber's  pole,  and  covered  with  vul- 
gar gildings.  Chins  in  the  air,  ecstatic  eyes  shining 
with  varnish,  horribly  ugly  and  all  new,  they  were 
drawn  up  in  line  like  recruits  at  the  roll-call,  the 
mitred  bishop,  the  martyr  carrying  his  palm,  St.  Agnes 
embracing  her  lamb,  St.  Roch  with  his  dog  and  shells, 
St.  John  the  Baptist  in  his  sheepskin,  and,  most  ridic- 
ulous of  all,  poor  Vincent  de  Paul  carrying  three  naked 
children  in  his  arms,  like  a  midwife's  advertisement. 

This  frightful  exhibition,  which  was  of  the  nature 
of  the  Tussaud  Museum  or  a  masquerade,  positively 
frightened  Amedee.  He  had  recently  been  to  his  first 
communion,  and  was  still  burning  with  the  mystical 
fever,  but  so  much  ugliness  offended  his  already  fas- 
tidious taste  and  threw  him  into  his  first  doubt. 

One  day,  about  five  o'clock,  M.  Violette  and  his  son 

[47] 


FRANCOIS 

arrived  at  the  "Bon  Marche  des  Paroisses,"  and  found 
Uncle  Isidore  in  the  room  where  the  painted  statues 
were  kept,  superintending  the  packing  of  a  St.  Michel. 
The  last  customer  of  the  day  was  just  leaving,  the 
Bishop  in  partibus  of  Trebizonde,  blessing  M.  Gaufre. 
The  little  apoplectic  man,  the  giver  of  holy  water, 
left  alone  with  his  clerks,  felt  under  restraint  no 
longer. 

"Pay  attention,  you  confounded  idiot!"  he  cried  to 
the  young  man  just  ready  to  lay  the  archangel  in  the 
shavings.  "You  almost  broke  the  dragon's  tail." 

Then,  noticing  Ame'dee  and  M.  Violette  who  had 
just  entered: 

"Ah!  It  is  you,  Violette!  Good-day!  Good-day, 
Amedee!  You  come  at  an  unlucky  time.  It  is  ship- 
ping-day with  us.  I  am  in  a  great  hurry — Eh!  Mon- 
sieur Combier,  by  your  leave,  Monsieur  Combier! 
Do  not  forget  the  three  dozen  of  the  Apparition  de  la 
Salette  in  stucco  for  Grenoble,  with  twenty-five  per 
cent,  reduction  upon  the  bill.  Are  you  working  hard, 
Amedee?  What  do  you  say?  He  was  first  and  as- 
sisted at  the  feast  of  St.  Charlemagne!  So  much  the 
better! — Jules,  did  you  send  the  six  chandeliers  and 
the  plated  pyx  and  the  Stations  of  the  Cross,  Number 
Two,  to  the  Dames  du  Sacre-Cceur  d'Alencons? 
What,  not  yet?  But  the  order  came  three  days  ago! 
You  must  hurry,  I  tell  you! — You  can  see,  Violette, 
I  am  overflowing  with  work — but  come  in  here  a  mo- 
ment." 

And  once  more  ordering  his  bookkeeper,  a  captive 
in  his  glass  case,  to  send  the  officers  the  notes  that  the 

[48] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

cure  of  Sourdeval  had  allowed  to  go  to  protest,  Uncle 
Isidore  ushered  M.  Violette  and  his  son  into  his  office. 

It  was  an  ancient  room,  and  M.  Gaufre,  who  aimed 
at  the  austere,  had  made  it  gloomier  still  by  a  safe, 
and  black  haircloth  furniture,  which  looked  as  if  taken 
from  a  vestry-room.  The  pretty,  high,  and  oval  apart- 
ment, with  its  large  window,  opening  upon  a  garden, 
its  ceiling  painted  in  light  rosy  clouds,  its  woodwork 
ornamented  with  wreaths  and  quivers,  still  preserved 
some  of  the  charm  and  elegance  of  former  days.  Ame- 
dee  would  have  been  amused  there,  had  not  Uncle 
Isidore,  who  had  seated  himself  before  his  desk, 
launched  at  once  an  unkind  question  at  M.  Violette. 

"By  the  way,  have  you  obtained  the  promotion  that 
you  counted  so  much  upon  last  year?" 

"Unfortunately,  no,  Monsieur  Gaufre.  You  know 
what  the  Administration  is." 

"Yes,  it  is  slow;  but  you  are  not  overwhelmed  with 
work,  however.  While  in  a  business  like  this — what 
cares,  what  annoyances!  I  sometimes  envy  you.  You 
can  take  an  hour  to  cut  your  pens.  Well,  what  is 
wanted  of  me  now?" 

The  head  of  a  clerk  with  a  pencil  behind  his  ear, 
appeared  through  the  half-open  door. 

"Monsieur  le  Superieur  of  Foreign  Missions  wishes 
to  speak  with  Monsieur." 

"You  can  see!  Not  one  minute  to  myself .  Another 
time,  my  dear  Violette.  Adieu,  my  little  man — it  is 
astonishing  how  much  he  grows  to  look  like  Lucie! 
You  must  come  and  dine  with  me  some  Sunday, 
without  ceremony.  Berenice's  souffle  au  jromage  is 
4  [49] 


FRANCOIS  COPPtiE 

something  delicious!    Let  Monsieur  le  Superieur  come 
in." 

M.  Violette  took  his  departure,  displeased  at  his 
useless  visit  and  irritated  against  Uncle  Isidore,  who 
had  been  hardly  civil. 

"That  man  is  a  perfect  egotist,"  thought  he,  sadly; 
"and  that  girl  has  him  in  her  clutches.  My  poor 
Ame'dee  will  have  nothing  from  him." 

Amedee  himself  was  not  interested  in  his  uncle's 
fortune.  He  was  just  then  a  pupil  in  the  fourth  grade, 
which  follows  the  same  studies  as  at  the  Lycee  Henri 
IV.  Having  suddenly  grown  tall,  he  was  annoyed  at 
wearing  short  trousers,  and  had  already  renounced  all 
infantile  games.  The  dangling  crows  which  illustrated 
the  pages  of  his  Burnouf  grammar  were  all  dated  the 
previous  year,  and  he  had  entirely  renounced  feeding 
silkworms  in  his  desk.  Everything  pointed  to  his  not 
being  a  very  practical  man.  Geometry  disgusted  him, 
and  as  for  dates,  he  could  not  remember  one.  On 
holidays  he  liked  to  walk  by  himself  through  quiet 
streets;  he  read  poems  at  the  bookstalls,  and  lingered 
in  the  Luxembourg  Gardens  to  see  the  sun  set.  Des- 
tined to  be  a  dreamer  and  a  sentimentalist — so  much 
the  worse  for  you,  poor  Amedee! 

He  went  very  often  to  the  Gerards,  but  he  no  longer 
called  his  little  friends  "  thou."  Louise  was  now  seven- 
teen years  old,  thin,  without  color,  and  with  a  lank 
figure;  decidedly  far  from  pretty.  People,  in  speak- 
ing of  her,  began  to  say,  "She  has  beautiful  eyes  and 
is  an  excellent  musician."  Her  sister  Maria  was  twelve 
years  old  and  a  perfect  little  rosebud. 

[50] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

As  to  the  neighbor's  little  girl,  Rosine  Combarieu, 
she  had  disappeared.  One  day  the  printer  suddenly 
departed  without  saying  a  word  to  anybody,  and  took 
his  child  with  him.  The  concierge  said  that  he  was 
concerned  in  some  political  plot,  and  was  obliged  to 
leave  the  house  in  the  night.  They  believed  him  to  be 
concealed  in  some  small  town. 

Accordingly,  Father  Gerard  was  not  angry  with  him 
for  fleeing  without  taking  leave  of  him.  The  conspir- 
ator had  kept  all  his  prestige  in  the  eyes  of  the  engraver, 
who,  by  a  special  run  of  ill-luck,  was  always  engaged 
by  a  publisher  of  Bonapartist  works,  and  was  busy  at 
that  moment  upon  a  portrait  of  the  Prince  Imperial, 
in  the  uniform  of  a  corporal  of  the  Guards,  with  an  im- 
mense bearskin  cap  upon  his  childish  head. 

Father  Gerard  was  growing  old.  His  beard,  for- 
merly of  a  reddish  shade,  and  what  little  hair  there  was 
remaining  upon  his  head,  had  become  silvery  white; 
that  wonderful  white  which,  like  a  tardy  recompense 
to  red-faced  persons,  becomes  their  full-blooded  faces 
so  well.  The  good  man  felt  the  weight  of  years,  as  did 
his  wife,  whose  flesh  increased  in  such  a  troublesome 
way  that  she  was  forced  to  pant  heavily  when  she 
seated  herself  after  climbing  the  five  flights.  Father 
Gerard  grew  old,  like  everything  that  surrounded  him; 
like  the  house  opposite,  that  he  had  seen  built,  and 
that  no  longer  had  the  air  of  a  new  building;  like  his 
curious  old  furniture,  his  mended  crockery,  and  his 
engravings,  yellow  with  age,  the  frames  of  which  had 
turned  red;  like  the  old  Erard  piano,  upon  which 
Louise,  an  accomplished  performer,  now  was  playing 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

a  set  of  Beethoven's  waltzes  and  Mendelssohn's  "Songs 
Without  Words."  This  poor  old  servant  now  had  only 
the  shrill,  trembling  tones  of  a  harmonica. 

The  poor  artist  grew  old,  and  he  was  uneasy  as  to 
the  future;  for  he  had  not  known  how  to  manage  like 
his  school-friend,  the  intriguing  Damourette,  who  had 
formerly  cheated  him  out  of  the  prix  de  Rome  by  a 
favor,  and  who  now  played  the  gentleman  at  the  Insti- 
tute, in  his  embroidered  coat,  and  received  all  the  good 
orders.  He,  the  simpleton,  had  saddled  himself  with 
a  family,  and  although  he  had  drudged  like  a  slave  he 
had  laid  nothing  aside.  One  day  he  might  be  stricken 
with  apoplexy  and  leave  his  widow  without  resources, 
and  his  two  daughters  without  a  dowry.  He  some- 
times thought  of  all  this  as  he  filled  his  pipe,  and  it  was 
not  pleasant. 

If  M.  Gerard  grew  gloomy  as  he  grew  older,  M.  Vio- 
lette  became  mournful.  He  was  more  than  forty 
years  old  now.  What  a  decline !  Does  grief  make  the 
years  count  double  ?  The  widower  was  a  mere  wreck. 
His  rebellious  lock  of  hair  had  become  a  dirty  gray, 
and  always  hung  over  his  right  eye,  and  he  no  longer 
took  the  trouble  to  toss  it  behind  his  ear.  His  hands 
trembled  and  he  felt  his  memory  leaving  him.  He 
grew  more  taciturn  and  silent  than  ever,  and  seemed 
interested  in  nothing,  not  even  in  his  son's  studies. 
He  returned  home  late,  ate  little  at  dinner,  and  then 
went  out  again  with  a  tottering  step  to  pace  the  dark, 
gloomy  streets.  At  the  office,  where  he  still  did  his 
work  mechanically,  he  was  a  doomed  man;  he  never 
would  be  elected  chief  assistant.  "What  depravity!" 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

said  one  of  his  fellow  clerks,  a  young  man  with  a  bright 
future,  protected  by  the  head  of  the  department,  who 
went  to  the  races  and  had  not  his  equal  in  imitat- 
ing the  "Gnouf!  gnouf!"  of  Grassot,  the  actor.  "A 
man  of  his  age  does  not  decline  so  rapidly  without  good 
cause.  It  is  not  natural!"  What  is  it,  then,  that  has 
reduced  M.  Violette  to  such  a  degree  of  dejection  and 
wretchedness? 

Alas!  we  must  admit  it.  The  unhappy  man  lacked 
courage,  and  he  sought  consolation  in  his  despair,  and 
found  it  in  a  vice. 

Every  evening  when  he  left  his  office  he  went  into  a 
filthy  little  cafe  on  the  Rue  du  Four.  He  would  seat 
himself  upon  a  bench  in  the  back  of  the  room,  in 
the  darkest  corner,  as  if  ashamed ;  and  would  ask  in  a 
low  tone  for  his  first  glass  of  absinthe.  His  first! 
Yes,  for  he  drank  two,  three  even.  He  drank  them  in 
little  sips,  feeling  slowly  rise  within  him  the  cerebral 
rapture  of  the  powerful  liquor.  Let  those  who  are 
happy  blame  him  if  they  will!  It  was  there,  leaning 
upon  the  marble  table,  looking  at,  without  seeing  her, 
through  the  pyramids  of  lump  sugar  and  bowls  of 
punch,  the  lady  cashier  with  her  well  oiled  hair  reflected 
in  the  glass  behind  her — it  was  there  that  the  incon- 
solable widower  found  forgetfulness  of  his  trouble.  It 
was  there  that  for  one  hour  he  lived  over  again  his 
former  happiness. 

For,  by  a  phenomenon  well  known  to  drinkers  of 
absinthe,  he  regulated  and  governed  his  intoxication, 
and  it  gave  him  the  dream  that  he  desired. 

"Boy,  one  glass  of  absinthe!" 

[53] 


FRANCOIS 

And  once  more  he  became  the  young  husband,  who 
adores  his  dear  Lucie  and  is  adored  by  her. 

It  is  winter,  he  is  seated  in  the  corner  by  the  fire, 
and  before  him,  sitting  in  the  light  reflected  by  a  green 
lamp-shade  upon  which  dark  silhouettes  of  jockey- 
riders  are  running  at  full  speed,  his  wife  is  busying 
herself  with  some  embroidery.  Every  few  moments 
they  look  at  each  other  and  smile,  he  over  his  book 
and  she  over  her  work;  the  lover  never  tired  of  admir- 
ing Lucie's  delicate  fingers.  She  is  too  pretty!  Sud- 
denly he  falls  at  her  feet,  slips  his  arm  about  her  waist, 
and  gives  her  a  long  kiss;  then,  overcome  with  languor, 
he  puts  his  head  upon  his  beloved's  knees  and  hears 
her  say  to  him,  in  a  low  voice:  "That  is  right!  Go  to 
sleep!"  and  her  soft  hands  lightly  stroke  his  hair. 

"Boy,  one  glass  of  absinthe!" 

They  are  in  that  beautiful  field  filled  with  flowers, 
near  the  woods  in  Verrieres,  upon  a  fine  June  afternoon 
when  the  sun  is  low.  She  has  made  a  magnificent 
bouquet  of  field  flowers.  She  stops  at  intervals  to  add 
a  cornflower,  and  he  follows,  carrying  her  mantle  and 
umbrella.  How  beautiful  is  summer  and  how  sweet  it 
is  to  love !  They  are  a  little  tired ;  for  during  the  whole 
of  this  bright  Sunday  they  have  wandered  through  the 
meadows.  It  is  the  hour  for  dinner,  and  here  is  a  little 
tavern  under  some  lindens,  where  the  whiteness  of  the 
napkins  rivals  the  blossoming  thickets.  They  choose 
a  table  and  order  their  repast  of  a  moustached  youth. 
While  waiting  for  their  soup,  Lucie,  rosy  from  being 
out  all  day  in  the  open  air  and  silent  from  hunger, 
amuses  herself  in  looking  at  the  blue  designs  on  the 

[54] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

plates,  which  represented  battles  in  Africa.  What  a 
joyous  dinner!  There  were  mushrooms  in  the  omelet, 
mushrooms  in  the  stewed  kidneys,  mushrooms  in  the 
filet.  But  so  much  the  better!  They  are  very  fond  of 
them.  And  the  good  wine!  The  dear  child  is  almost 
intoxicated  at  dessert!  She  takes  it  into  her  head  to 
squeeze  a  cherry-stone  between  her  thumb  and  first 
finger  and  makes  it  pop — slap! — into  her  husband's 
face!  And  the  naughty  creature  laughs!  But  he  will 
have  his  revenge — wait  a  little!  He  rises,  and  leaning 
over  the  table  buries  two  fingers  between  her  collar 
and  her  neck,  and  the  mischievous  creature  draws  her 
head  down  into  her  shoulders  as  far  as  she  can,  begging 
him,  with  a  nervous  laugh,  "No,  no,  I  beseech  you!"  for 
she  is  afraid  of  being  tickled.  But  the  best  time  of  all 
is  the  return  through  the  country  at  night,  the  exquisite 
odor  of  new-mown  hay,  the  road  lighted  by  a  summer 
sky  where  the  whole  zodiac  twinkles,  and  through 
which,  like  a  silent  stream,  the  Chemin  de  St.  Jacques 
rolls  its  diamond  smoke. 

Tired  and  happy  she  hangs  upon  her  husband's  arm. 
How  he  loves  her!  It  seems  to  him  that  his  love  for 
Lucie  is  as  deep  and  profound  as  the  night.  "  Nobody 
is  coming — let  me  kiss  your  dear  mouth!"  and  their 
kisses  are  so  pure,  so  sincere,  and  so  sweet,  that  they 
ought  to  rejoice  the  stars! 

"Another  glass  of  absinthe,  boy — one  more!" 
And  the  unhappy  man  would  forget  for  a  few  mo- 
ments longer  that  he  ought  to  go  back  to  his  lonely 
lodging,  where  the  servant  had  laid  the  table  some 
time  before,  and  his  little  son  awaited  him,  yawning 

[55] 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

with  hunger  and  reading  a  book  placed  beside  his 
plate.  He  forgot  the  horrible  moment  of  returning, 
when  he  would  try  to  hide  his  intoxicated  condition 
under  a  feint  of  bad  humor,  and  when  he  would  seat 
himself  at  table  without  even  kissing  Amedee,  in  order 
that  the  child  should  not  smell  his  breath. 


[56] 


CHAPTER  V 


AMEDEE  MAKES  FRIENDS 


iANWHILE  the  allegorical  old  fellow 
with  the  large  wings  and  white  beard, 
Time,  had  emptied  his  hour-glass 
many  times;  or,  to  speak  plainer, 
the  postman,  with  a  few  flakes  of 
snow  upon  his  blue  cloth  coat,  pre- 
sents himself  three  or  four  times  a 
day  at  his  customers'  dwelling  to 
offer  in  return  for  a  trifling  sum  of  money  a  calendar 
containing  necessary  information,  such  as  the  ecclesias- 
tical computation,  or  the  difference  between  the  Gre- 
gorian and  the  Arabic  Hegira;  and  Amedee  Violette 
had  gradually  become  a  young  man. 

A  young  man!  that  is  to  say,  a  being  who  possesses 
a  treasure  without  knowing  its  value,  like  a  Central 
African  negro  who  picks  up  one  of  M.  Rothschild's 
cheque-books;  a  young  man  ignorant  of  his  beauty  or 
charms,  who  frets  because  the  light  down  upon  his 
chin  has  not  turned  into  hideous  bristles,  a  young  man 
who  awakes  every  morning  full  of  hope,  and  artlessly 
asks  himself  what  fortunate  thing  will  happen  to  him 
to-day;  who  dreams,  instead  of  living,  because  he  is 
timid  and  poor. 

It  was  then  that  Ame"dee  made  the  acquaintance  of 

[57] 


FRANCOIS 

one  of  his  comrades — he  no  longer  went  to  M.  Batifol's 
boarding-school,  but  was  completing  his  studies  at  the 
Lycee  Henri  IV — named  Maurice  Roger.  They  soon 
formed  an  affectionate  intimacy,  one  of  those  eighteen- 
year-old  friendships  which  are  perhaps  the  sweetest 
and  most  substantial  in  the  world. 

Amedee  was  attracted,  at  first  sight,  by  Maurice's 
handsome,  blond,  curly  head,  his  air  of  frankness  and 
superiority,  and  the  elegant  jackets  that  he  wore  with 
the  easy,  graceful  manners  of  a  gentleman.  Twice  a 
day,  when  they  left  the  college,  they  walked  together 
through  the  Luxembourg  Gardens,  confiding  to  each 
other  their  dreams  and  hopes,  lingering  in  the  walks, 
where  Maurice  already  gazed  at  the  grisettes  in  an  im- 
pudent fashion,  talking  with  the  charming  abandon  of 
their  age,  the  sincere  age  when  one  thinks  aloud. 

Maurice  told  his  new  friend  that  he  was  the  son  of 
an  officer  killed  before  Sebastopol,  that  his  mother  had 
never  married  again,  but  adored  him  and  indulged  him 
in  all  his  whims.  He  was  patiently  waiting  for  his 
school-days  to  end,  to  live  independently  in  the  Latin 
Quarter,  to  study  law,  without  being  hurried,  since  his 
mother  wished  him  to  do  so,  and  he  did  not  wish  to 
displease  her.  But  he  wished  also  to  amuse  himself 
with  painting,  at  least  as  an  amateur;  for  he  was  pas- 
sionately fond  of  it.  All  this  was  said  by  the  handsome, 
aristocratic  young  man  with  a  happy  smile,  which  ex- 
panded his  sensual  lips  and  nostrils;  and  Amede"e 
admired  him  without  one  envious  thought;  feeling, 
with  the  generous  warmth  of  youth,  an  entire  confi- 
dence in  the  future  and  the  mere  joy  of  living.  In  his 

[58] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

turn  he  made  a  confidant  of  Maurice,  but  not  of  every- 
thing. The  poor  boy  could  not  tell  anybody  that  he 
suspected  his  father  of  a  secret  vice,  that  he  blushed 
over  it,  was  ashamed  of  it,  and  suffered  from  it  as  much 
as  youth  can  suffer.  At  least,  honest-hearted  fellow 
that  he  was,  he  avowed  his  humble  origin  without 
shame,  boasted  of  his  humble  friends  the  Gerards, 
praised  Louise's  goodness,  and  spoke  enthusiastically 
of  little  Maria,  who  was  just  sixteen  and  so  pretty. 

"You  will  take  me  to  see  them  some  time,  will  you 
not?"  said  Maurice,  who  listened  to  his  friend  with  his 
natural  good  grace.  "  But  first  of  all,  you  must  come  to 
dinner  some  day  with  me,  and  I  will  present  you  to  my 
mother.  Next  Sunday,  for  instance.  Is  it  agreeable  ?" 

Amedee  would  have  liked  to  refuse,  for  he  suddenly 
recalled — oh!  the  torture  and  suffering  of  poor  young 
men ! — that  his  Sunday  coat  was  almost  as  seedy  as  his 
everyday  one,  that  his  best  pair  of  shoes  were  run-over 
at  the  heels,  and  that  the  collars  and  cuffs  on  his  six 
white  shirts  were  ragged  on  the  edges  from  too  frequent 
washings.  Then,  to  go  to  dinner  in  the  city,  what  an 
ordeal !  What  must  he  do  to  be  presented  in  a  drawing- 
room  ?  The  very  thought  of  it  made  him  shiver.  But 
Maurice  invited  him  so  cordially  that  he  was  irresistible, 
and  Amedee  accepted. 

The  following  Sunday,  then,  spruced  up  in  his  best 
—what  could  have  possessed  the  haberdasher  to  induce 
him  to  buy  a  pair  of  red  dog-skin  gloves?  He  soon 
saw  that  they  were  too  new  and  too  startling  for  the 
rest  of  his  costume — Amedee  went  up  to  the  first  floor 
of  a  fine  house  on  the  Faubourg  St.  Honore  and  rang 

[59] 


FRANCOIS  COPP&E 

gently  at  the  door  on  the  left.  A  young  and  pretty 
maid — one  of  those  brunettes  who  have  a  waist  that 
one  can  clasp  in  both  hands,  and  a  suspicion  of  a 
moustache — opened  the  door  and  ushered  the  young 
man  into  a  drawing-room  furnished  in  a  simple  but 
luxurious  manner.  Maurice  was  alone,  standing  with 
his  back  to  the  fire,  in  the  attitude  of  master  of  the 
house.  He  received  his  friend  with  warm  demonstra- 
tions of  pleasure.  Amedee's  eyes  were  at  once  attracted 
by  the  portrait  of  a  handsome  lieutenant  of  artillery, 
dressed  in  the  regimental  coat,  with  long  skirts,  of  1845, 
and  wearing  a  sword-belt  fastened  by  two  lion's  heads. 
This  officer,  in  parade  costume,  was  painted  in  the 
midst  of  a  desert,  seated  under  a  palm-tree. 

"That  is  my  father,"  said  Maurice.  "Do  I  not  re- 
semble him?" 

The  resemblance  was  really  striking.  The  same 
warm,  pleasant  smile,  and  even  the  same  blond  curls. 
Amedee  was  admiring  it  when  a  voice  repeated  behind 
him,  like  an  echo: 

"Maurice  resembles  him,  does  he  not?" 

It  was  Madame  Roger  who  had  quietly  entered. 
When  Amede'e  saw  this  stately  lady  in  mourning, 
with  a  Roman  profile,  and  clear,  white  complexion, 
who  threw  such  an  earnest  glance  at  her  son,  then  at 
her  husband's  portrait,  Amedee  comprehended  that 
Maurice  was  his  mother's  idol,  and,  moved  by  the 
sight  of  the  widow,  who  would  have  been  beautiful 
but  for  her  gray  hair  and  eyelids,  red  from  so  much 
weeping,  he  stammered  a  few  words  of  thanks  for  the 
invitation  to  dinner. 

[60] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

"My  son  has  told  me,"  said  she,  "that  you  are  the 
one  among  all  his  comrades  that  he  cares  for  most.  I 
know  what  affection  you  have  shown  him.  I  am  the 
one  who  should  thank  you,  Monsieur  Ame'dee." 

They  seated  themselves  and  talked ;  every  few  mo- 
ments these  words  were  spoken  by  Madame  Roger 
with  an  accent  of  pride  and  tenderness,  "My  son  .  .  . 
my  son  Maurice."  Amedee  realized  how  pleasant  his 
friend's  life  must  be  with  such  a  good  mother,  and  he 
could  not  help  comparing  his  own  sad  childhood,  re- 
calling above  all  things  the  lugubrious  evening  repasts, 
when,  for  several  years  now,  he  had  buried  his  nose  in 
his  plate  so  as  not  to  see  his  father's  drunken  eyes  always 
fastened  upon  him  as  if  to  ask  for  his  pardon. 

Maurice  let  his  mother  praise  him  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, looking  at  her  with  a  pleasant  smile  which  be- 
came a  trifle  saddened.  Finally  he  interrupted  her: 

"It  is  granted,  mamma,  that  I  am  a  perfect  phcenix," 
and  he  gayly  embraced  her. 

At  this  moment  the  pretty  maid  announced,  "Mon- 
sieur and  Mesdemoiselles  Lantz,"  and  Madame  Roger 
arose  hastily  to  receive  the  newcomers.  Lieutenant- 
Colonel  Lantz,  of  the  Engineer  Corps,  was  with  Cap- 
tain Roger  when  he  died  in  the  trench  before  Mamelon 
Vert;  and  might  have  been  at  that  time  pleasant  to 
look  upon,  in  his  uniform  with  its  black  velvet  breast- 
plate; but,  having  been  promoted  some  time  ago 
to  the  office,  he  had  grown  aged,  leaning  over  the 
plans  and  draughts  on  long  tables  covered  with  rules 
and  compasses.  With  a  cranium  that  looked  like  a 
picked  bird,  his  gray,  melancholy  imperial,  his  stoop- 

[61] 


FRANCOIS  COPPEE 

ing  shoulders,  which  shortened  still  more  his  tightly 
buttoned  military  coat,  there  was  nothing  martial  in 
his  appearance.  With  his  head  full  of  whims,  no  for- 
tune, and  three  daughters  to  marry,  the  poor  Colonel, 
who  put  on  only  two  or  three  times  a  year,  for  official 
solemnities,  his  uniform,  which  he  kept  in  camphor, 
dined  every  Sunday  night  with  Madame  Roger,  who 
liked  this  estimable  man  because  he  was  her  husband's 
best  friend,  and  had  invited  him  with  his  three  little 
girls,  who  looked  exactly  alike,  with  their  turned-up 
noses,  florid  complexions,  and  little,  black,  bead-like 
eyes,  always  so  carefully  dressed  that  one  involuntarily 
compared  them  to  three  pretty  cakes  prepared  for 
some  wedding  or  festive  occasion.  They  sat  down  at 
the  table. 

Madame  Roger  employed  an  excellent  cook,  and 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life  Amedee  ate  a  quantity  of 
good  things,  even  more  exquisite  than  Mamma  G£- 
rard's  little  fried  dishes.  It  was  really  only  a  very  com- 
fortable and  nice  dinner,  but  to  the  young  man  it  was 
a  revelation  of  unsuspected  pleasures.  This  decorated 
table,  this  cloth  that  was  so  soft  when  he  put  his  hand 
upon  it;  these  dishes  that  excited  and  satisfied  the 
appetite;  these  various  flavored  wines  which,  like  the 
flowers,  were  fragrant — what  new  and  agreeable  sensa- 
tions! They  were  quickly  and  silently  waited  upon  by 
the  pretty  maid.  Maurice,  seated  opposite  his  mother, 
presided  over  the  repast  with  his  elegant  gayety.  Ma- 
dame Roger's  pale  face  would  light  up  with  a  smile  at 
each  of  his  good-natured  jokes,  and  the  three  young 
ladies  would  burst  into  discreet  little  laughs,  all  in 

[62] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

unison,  and  even  the  sorrowful  Colonel  would  arouse 
from  his  torpor. 

He  became  animated  after  his  second  glass  of  bur- 
gundy, and  was  very  entertaining.  He  spoke  of  the 
Crimean  campaign;  of  that  chivalrous  war  when  the 
officers  of  both  armies,  enemies  to  each  other,  exchanged 
politenesses  and  cigars  during  the  suspension  of  arms. 
He  told  fine  military  anecdotes,  and  Madame  Roger, 
seeing  her  son's  face  excited  with  enthusiasm  at  these 
heroic  deeds,  became  gloomy  at  once.  Maurice  no- 
ticed it  first. 

"Take  care,  Colonel,"  said  he.  "You  will  frighten 
mamma,  and  she  will  imagine  at  once  that  I  still  wish 
to  enter  Saint-Cyr.  But  I  assure  you,  little  mother,  you 
may  be  tranquil.  Since  you  wish  it,  your  respectful 
and  obedient  son  will  become  a  lawyer  without  clients, 
who  will  paint  daubs  during  his  spare  moments.  In 
reality,  I  should  much  prefer  a  horse  and  a  sword  and 
a  squadron  of  hussars.  But  no  matter!  The  essential 
thing  is  not  to  give  mamma  any  trouble." 

This  was  said  with  so  much  warmth  and  gentleness, 
that  Madame  Roger  and  the  Colonel  exchanged  soft- 
ened looks;  the  young  ladies  were  also  moved,  as 
much  as  pastry  can  be,  and  they  all  fixed  upon  Maurice 
their  little  black  eyes,  which  had  suddenly  become  so 
soft  and  tender  that  Amedee  did  not  doubt  but  that 
they  all  had  a  sentimental  feeling  for  Maurice,  and 
thought  him  very  fortunate  to  have  the  choice  between 
three  such  pretty  pieces  for  dessert. 

How  all  loved  this  charming  and  graceful  Maurice, 
and  how  well  he  knew  how  to  make  himself  beloved ! 

[63] 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

Later,  when  they  served  the  champagne,  he  arose, 
glass  in  hand,  and  delivered  a  burlesque  toast,  finding 
some  pleasant  word  for  all  his  guests.  What  frank 
gayety!  what  a  hearty  laugh  went  around  the  table! 
The  three  young  ladies  giggled  themselves  as  red  as 
peonies.  A  sort  of  joyous  chuckle  escaped  from  the 
Colonel's  drooping  moustache.  Madame  Roger's  smile 
seemed  to  make  her  grow  young;  and  Ame'de'e  noticed, 
in  a  corner  of  the  dining-room,  the  pretty  maid,  who 
restrained  herself  no  more  than  the  others;  and  when 
she  showed  her  teeth,  that  were  like  a  young  puppy's, 
she  was  charming  indeed. 

After  the  tea  the  Colonel,  who  lived  at  some  dis- 
tance, near  the  Military  School,  and  who,  as  the 
weather  was  fine,  wished  to  walk  home  and  avoid  the 
expense  of  a  cab,  left  with  his  three  marriageable 
daughters,  and  Amedee  in  his  turn  took  his  departure. 

In  the  ante-chamber,  the  maid  said  to  Maurice,  as 
she  helped  him  on  with  his  topcoat. 

"I  hope  that  you  will  not  come  in  very  late  this 
evening,  Monsieur  Maurice." 

"What  is  that,  Suzanne?"  replied  the  young  man, 
without  anger,  but  a  trifle  impatiently.  "I  shall  re- 
turn at  the  hour  that  pleases  me." 

As  he  descended  the  stairs  ahead  of  Amed6e,  he  said, 
with  a  laugh: 

"Upon  my  word!  she  will  soon  make  her  jealousy 
public." 

"What!"  exclaimed  Ame'de'e,  glad  that  his  com- 
panion could  not  see  his  blushes. 

"Well,  yes!  Is  she  not  pretty ?  I  admit  it,  Violette; 

[64] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

I  have  not,  like  you,  the  artlessness  of  the  flower  whose 
name  you  bear.  You  will  have  to  resign  yourself  to 
it;  you  have  a  very  bad  fellow  for  a  friend.  As  to  the 
rest,  be  content.  I  have  resolved  to  scandalize  the 
family  roof  no  longer.  I  have  finished  with  this  bold- 
faced creature.  You  must  know  that  she  began  it, 
and  was  the  first  to  kiss  me  on  the  sly.  Now,  I  am 
engaged  elsewhere.  Here  we  are  outside,  and  here  is 
a  carriage.  Here,  driver!  You  will  allow  me  to  bid 
you  adieu.  It  is  only  a  quarter  past  ten.  I  still  have 
time  to  appear  at  Bullier's  and  meet  Zoe  Mirilton. 
Until  to-morrow,  Violette." 

Amedee  returned  home  very  much  troubled.  So, 
then,  his  friend  was  a  libertine.  But  he  made  excuses 
for  him.  Had  he  not  just  seen  him  so  charming  to  his 
mother  and  so  respectful  to  the  three  young  ladies? 
Maurice  had  allowed  himself  to  be  carried  away  by 
his  youthful  impetuosity,  that  was  all !  Was  it  for  him, 
still  pure,  but  tormented  by  the  temptations  and  curios- 
ity of  youth,  to  be  severe  ?  Would  he  not  have  done  as 
much  had  he  dared,  or  if  he  had  had  the  money  in  his 
pocket  ?  To  tell  the  truth,  Amedee  dreamed  that  very 
night  of  the  pretty  maid  with  the  suspicion  of  a  mous- 
tache. 

The  next  day,  when  Amedee  paid  his  visit  to  the 
Gerards,  all  they  could  talk  of  was  the  evening  before. 
Amedee  spoke  with  the  eloquence  of  a  young  man 
who  had  seen  for  the  first  time  a  finger-bowl  at  dessert. 

Louise,  while  putting  on  her  hat  and  getting  her 
roll  of  music — she  gave  lessons  now  upon  the  piano  in 
boarding-schools — was  much  interested  in  Madame 
5  [65] 


FRANCOIS 

Roger's  imposing  beauty.  Mamma  Gerard  would  have 
liked  to  know  how  the  chicken- jelly  was  made;  the 
old  engraver  listened  with  pleasure  to  the  Colonel's 
military  anecdotes;  while  little  Maria  exacted  a  precise 
description  of  the  toilettes  of  the  three  demoiselles 
Lantz,  and  turned  up  her  nose  disdainfully  at  them. 

"Now,  then,  Ame'dee,"  said  the  young  girl,  suddenly, 
as  she  looked  at  herself  in  a  mirror  that  was  covered 
with  fly-specks,  "tell  me  honestly,  were  these  young 
ladies  any  prettier  than  I?" 

"Do  you  see  the  coquette?"  exclaimed  Father  Ge*- 
rard,  bursting  into  laughter  without  raising  his  eyes 
from  his  work.  "Do  people  ask  such  questions  as 
that,  Mademoiselle?" 

There  was  a  general  gayety,  but  Amedee  blushed 
without  knowing  why.  Oh !  no,  certainly  those  three 
young  ladies  in  their  Savoy-cake  skirts  and  nougat 
waists  were  not  as  pretty  as  little  Maria  in  her  simple 
brown  frock.  How  she  improved  from  day  to  day! 
It  seemed  to  Amede'e  as  if  he  never  had  seen  her  before 
until  this  minute.  Where  had  she  found  that  supple, 
round  waist,  that  mass  of  reddish  hair  which  she 
twristed  upon  the  top  of  her  head,  that  lovely  complex- 
ion, that  mouth,  and  those  eyes  that  smiled  with  the 
artless  tenderness  of  young  flowers  ? 

Mamma  Gerard,  while  laughing  like  the  others, 
scolded  her  daughter  a  little  for  her  attack  of  feminine 
vanity,  and  then  began  to  talk  of  Madame  Roger  in 
order  to  change  the  conversation. 

Ame'dee  did  not  cease  to  praise  his  friend.  He 
told  how  affectionate  he  was  to  his  mother,  how  he 

[66] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

resisted  the  military  blood  that  burned  in  him,  how 
graceful  he  was,  and  how,  at  eighteen  years,  he  did 
the  honor  of  the  drawing-room  and  table  with  all  the 
manner  of  a  grand  seigneur. 

Maria  listened  attentively. 

"You  have  promised  to  bring  him  here,  Amede'e," 
said  the  spoiled  child,  with  a  serious  air.  "I  should 
like  very  much  to  see  him  once." 

Amedee  repeated  his  promise;  but  on  his  way  to 
the  Lycee,  for  his  afternoon  class,  he  recalled  the  inci- 
dent of  the  pretty  maid  and  the  name  of  Zoe  Mirilton, 
and,  seized  with  some  scruples,  he  asked  himself 
whether  he  ought  to  introduce  his  friend  to  the  young 
Gerard  girls.  At  first  this  idea  made  him  uneasy, 
then  he  thought  that  it  was  ridiculous.  Was  not 
Maurice  a  good-hearted  young  man  and  well  brought 
up?  Had  he  not  seen  him  conduct  himself  with  tact 
and  reserve  before  Colonel  Lantz's  daughters? 

Some  days  later  Maurice  reminded  him  of  the  prom- 
ised visit  to  the  Gerards,  and  Amedee  presented  him 
to  his  old  friends. 

Louise  was  not  at  home;  she  had  been  going  about 
teaching  for  some  time  to  increase  the  family's  resources, 
for  the  engraver  was  more  red-faced  than  ever,  and 
obliged  to  change  the  number  of  his  spectacles  every 
year,  and  could  not  do  as  much  work  as  formerly. 

But  the  agreeable  young  man  made  a  conquest  of 
the  rest  of  the  family  by  his  exquisite  good-nature  and 
cordial,  easy  manner.  Respectful  and  simple  with 
Madame  Gerard,  whom  he  intimidated  a  little,  he  paid 
very  little  attention  to  Maria  and  did  not  appear  to 

[67] 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

notice  that  he  was  exciting  her  curiosity  to  the  highest 
pitch.  He  modestly  asked  Father  Gerard's  advice 
upon  his  project  of  painting,  amusing  himself  with 
the  knickknacks  about  the  apartments,  picking  out  by 
instinct  the  best  engravings  and  canvases  of  value. 
The  good  man  was  enchanted  with  Maurice  and  hast- 
ened to  show  him  his  private  museum,  forgetting  all 
about  his  pipe — he  was  smoking  at  present  a  Gari- 
baldi— and  presented  him  his  last  engraving,  where 
one  saw — it  certainly  was  a  fatality  that  pursued  the 
old  republican! — the  Emperor  Napoleon  III,  at  Ma- 
genta, motionless  upon  his  horse  in  the  centre  of  a 
square  of  grenadiers,  cut  down  by  grape  and  canister. 

Maurice's  visit  was  short,  and  as  Amedee  had 
thought  a  great  deal  about  little  Maria  for  several 
days,  he  asked  his  friend,  as  he  conducted  him  a  part 
of  the  way: 

"What  did  you  think  of  her?" 

Maurice  simply  replied,  " Delicious!"  and  changed 
the  conversation. 


[68] 


CHAPTER  VI 

DREAMS  OF  LOVE 

SOLEMN  moment  approached  for 
the  two  friends.  They  were  to  take 
their  examinations  for  graduation. 
Upon  the  days  when  M.  Violette — 
they  now  called  him  at  the  office 
"Father  Violette,"  he  had  grown  so 
aged  and  decrepit — was  not  too  much 
"consoled"  in  the  cafe  in  the  Rue 
du  Four,  and  when  he  was  less  silent  and  gloomy  than 
usual,  he  would  say  to  his  son,  after  the  soup: 

"Do  you  know,  Ame"dee,  I  shall  not  be  easy  in  my 
mind  until  you  have  received  your  degree.  Say  what 
they  may,  it  leads  to  everything." 

To  everything  indeed!  M.  Violette  had  a  college 
friend  upon  whom  all  the  good  -marks  had  been  show- 
ered, who,  having  been  successively  schoolmaster, 
journalist,  theatrical  critic,  a  boarder  in  Mazas  prison, 
insurance  agent,  director  of  an  athletic  ring — he 
quoted  Homer  in  his  harangue — at  present  pushed 
back  the  curtains  at  the  entrance  to  the  Ambigu,  and 
waited  for  his  soup  at  the  barracks  gate,  holding  out 
an  old  tomato-can  to  be  rilled. 

But  M.  Violette  had  no  cause  to  fear!  Amede'e  re- 
ceived his  degree  on  the  same  day  with  his  friend 

[69] 


FRANCOIS  COPPtiE 

Maurice,  and  both  passed  honorably.  A  little  old  man 
with  a  head  like  a  baboon — the  scientific  examiner — 
tried  to  make  Amede'e  flounder  on  the  subject  of  nitro- 
gen, but  he  passed  all  the  same.  One  can  hope  for 
everything  nowadays. 

But  what  could  Amedee  hope  for  first  ?  M.  Violette 
thought  of  it  when  he  was  not  at  his  station  at  the  Rue 
du  Four.  What  could  he  hope  for?  Nothing  very 
great. 

Probably  he  could  enter  the  ministry  as  an  auxiliary. 
One  hundred  francs  a  month,  and  the  gratuities,  would 
not  be  bad  for  a  beginner!  M.  Violette  recalled  his 
endless  years  in  the  office,  and  all  the  trouble  he  had 
taken  to  guess  a  famous  rebus  that  was  celebrated  for 
never  having  been  solved.  Was  Amedee  to  spend  his 
youth  deciphering  enigmas?  M.  Violette  hoped  for  a 
more  independent  career  for  his  son,  if  it  were  possible. 
Commerce,  for  example!  Yes!  there  was  a  future  in 
commerce.  As  a  proof  of  it  there  was  the  grocer  op- 
posite him,  a  simpleton  who  probably  did  not  put  the 
screws  on  enough  and  had  just  hanged  himself  rather 
than  go  into  bankruptcy.  M.  Violette  would  gladly 
see  his  son  in  business.  If  he  could  begin  with  M. 
Gaufre?  Why  not?  The  young  man  might  become 
in  the  end  his  uncle's  partner  and  make  his  fortune. 
M.  Violette  spoke  of  it  to  Amedee. 

"Shall  we  go  to  see  your  uncle  Sunday  morning?" 

The  idea  of  selling  chasubles  and  Stations  of  the 
Cross  did  not  greatly  please  Ame"dc"e,  who  had  con- 
cealed in  his  drawer  a  little  book  full  of  sonnets,  and 
had  in  his  mind  the  plan  of  a  romantic  drama  wherein 

[70] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

one  would  say  "Good  heavens!"  and  "My  lord!" 
But  first  of  all,  he  must  please  his  father.  He  was  glad 
to  observe  that  for  some  time  M.  Violette  had  inter- 
ested himself  more  in  him,  and  had  resisted  his  baneful 
habit  somewhat.  The  young  man  offered  no  resist- 
ance. The  next  day  at  noon  he  presented  himself  at 
the  Rue  Servandoni,  accompanied  by  his  father. 

The  "dealer  in  pious  goods"  received  them  with 
great  good-humor.  He  had  just  come  from  high  mass 
and  was  about  to  sit  down  at  the  table.  He  even 
invited  them  to  follow  his  example  and  taste  of  his 
stewed  kidneys,  one  of  Berenice's  triumphs,  who  served 
the  dinner  with  her  hands  loaded  with  rings.  The  Vio- 
lettes  had  dined,  and  the  father  made  known  his  desire. 

"Yes,"  said  Uncle  Isidore,  "Amedee  might  enter 
the  house.  Only  you  know,  Violette,  it  will  be  another 
education  to  be  learned  over  again.  He  must  begin  at 
the  very  beginning  and  follow  the  regular  course.  Oh! 
the  boy  will  not  be  badly  treated!  He  may  take  his 
meals  with  us,  is  not  that  so,  Berenice?  At  first  he 
would  be  obliged  to  run  about  a  little,  as  I  did  when  I 
came  from  the  province  to  work  in  the  shop  and  tie 
up  parcels." 

M.  Violette  looked  at  his  son  and  saw  that  he  was 
blushing  with  shame.  The  poor  man  understood  his 
mistake.  What  good  to  have  dazzled  M.  Patin  be- 
fore the  whole  University  by  reciting,  without  hesi- 
tation, three  verses  of  Aristophanes,  only  to  become 
a  drudge  and  a  packer?  Well!  so  Amede'e  would 
yawn  over  green  boxes  and  guess  at  enigmas  in  the 
Illustration.  It  had  to  be  so. 


FRANCOIS  COPPEE 

They  took  leave  of  Uncle  Isidore. 

"We  will  reflect  over  it,  Monsieur  Gaufre,  and  will 
come  to  see  you  again." 

But  Berenice  had  hardly  shut  the  door  upon  them 
when  M.  Violette  said  to  his  son: 

"Nothing  is  to  be  expected  of  that  old  egotist.  To- 
morrow we  will  go  to  see  the  chief  of  my  department, 
I  have  spoken  of  you  to  him,  at  all  events." 

He  was  a  good  sort  of  fellow,  this  M.  Courtet,  who 
was  head  clerk,  though  too  conceited  and  starched  up, 
certainly.  His  red  rosette,  as  large  as  a  fifty-cent  piece, 
made  one's  eyes  blink,  and  he  certainly  was  very  im- 
prudent to  stand  so  long  backed  up  to  the  fireplace 
with  limbs  spread  apart,  for  it  seemed  that  he  must 
surely  burn  the  seat  of  his  trousers.  But  no  matter, 
he  has  stomach  enough.  He  has  noticed  M.  Violette's 
pitiful  decline — "a  poor  devil  who  never  will  live  to  be 
promoted."  Having  it  in  his  power  to  distribute  posi- 
tions, M.  Courtet  had  reserved  a  position  for  Amedee. 
In  eight  days  the  young  man  would  be  nominated  an 
auxiliary  employe  at  fifteen  hundred  francs  a  year. 
It  is  promised  and  done. 

Ugh!  the  sickening  heat  from  the  stove!  the  dis- 
gusting odor  of  musty  papers!  However,  Amedee  had 
nothing  to  complain  of;  they  might  have  given  him 
figures  to  balance  for  five  hours  at  a  time.  He  owed 
it  to  M.  Courtet' s  kindness,  that  he  was  put  at  once 
into  the  correspondence  room.  He  studied  the  formu- 
las, and  soon  became  skilful  in  official  politeness.  He 
now  knew  the  delicate  shades  which  exist  between 
"yours  respectfully"  and  "most  respectfully  yours;" 

[72] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

and  he  measured  the  abyss  which  separates  an  "agree- 
able" and  "homage." 

To  sum  it  all  up,  Amedee  was  bored,  but  he  was  not 
unhappy;  for  he  had  time  to  dream. 

He  went  the  longest  way  to  the  office  in  the  morning, 
while  seeking  to  make  "amour"  rhyme  with  "jour" 
without  producing  an  insipid  thing;  or  else  he  thought 
of  the  third  act  of  his  drama  after  the  style  of  1830, 
and  the  grand  love  scene  which  should  take  place  at 
the  foot  of  the  Montfaucon  gallows.  In  the  evening 
he  went  to  the  Gerards,  and  they  seated  themselves 
around  the  lamp  which  stood  on  the  dining-room 
table,  the  father  reading  his  journal,  the  women  sew- 
ing. He  chatted  with  Maria,  who  answered  him  the 
greater  part  of  the  time  without  raising  her  eyes,  be- 
cause she  suspected,  the  coquette!  that  he  admired  her 
beautiful,  drooping  lids. 

Amede*e  composed  his  first  sonnets  in  her  honor, 
and  he  adored  her,  of  course,  but  he  was  also  in  love 
with  the  Lantz  young  ladies,  whom  he  saw  sometimes 
at  Madame  Roger's,  and  who  each  wore  Sunday  even- 
ings roses  in  her  hair,  which  made  them  resemble  those 
pantheons  in  sponge-cake  that  pastry-cooks  put  in  their 
windows  on  fite  days. 

If  Amedee  had  been  presented  to  twelve  thousand 
maidens  successively,  they  would  have  inspired  twelve 
thousand  wishes.  There  was  the  servant  of  the  family 
on  the  first  floor,  whose  side-glance  troubled  him  as  he 
met  her  on  the  staircase;  and  his  heart  sank  every  time 
he  turned  the  handle  of  the  door  of  a  shop  in  the  Rue 
Bonaparte,  where  an  insidious  clerk  always  forced  him 

[73] 


FRANCOIS 

to  choose  ox-colored  kid  gloves,  which  he  detested. 
It  must  not  be  forgotten  that  Ame'de'e  was  very  young, 
and  was  in  love  with  love. 

He  was  so  extremely  timid  that  he  never  had  had 
the  audacity  to  tell  the  girl  at  the  glove  counter  that 
he  preferred  bronze-green  gloves,  nor  the  boldness  to 
show  Maria  Gerard  his  poems  composed  in  her  honor, 
in  which  he  now  always  put  the  plural  "amours,"  so 
as  to  make  it  rhyme  with  "tou  jours,"  which  was  an 
improvement.  He  never  had  dared  to  reply  to  the 
glance  of  the  little  maid  on  the  second  floor;  and  he 
was  very  wrong  to  be  embarrassed,  for  one  morning, 
as  he  passed  the  butcher's  shop,  he  saw  the  butcher's 
foreman  put  his  arm  about  the  girl's  waist  and  whisper 
a  love  speech  over  a  fine  sirloin  roast. 

Sometimes,  in  going  or  coming  from  the  office,  Ame*- 
dee  would  go  to  see  his  friend  Maurice,  who  had  ob- 
tained from  Madame  Roger  permission  to  install  him- 
self in  the  Latin  Quarter  so  as  to  be  near  the  law 
school. 

In  a  very  low-studded  first-floor  room  in  the  Rue 
Monsieur-le-Prince,  Amedee  perceived  through  a  cloud 
of  tobacco-smoke  the  elegant  Maurice  in  a  scarlet  jacket 
lying  upon  a  large  divan.  Everything  was  rich  and 
voluptuous,  heavy  carpets,  handsomely  bound  volumes 
of  poems,  an  open  piano,  and  an  odor  of  perfumery 
mingled  with  that  of  cigarettes.  Upon  the  velvet- 
covered  mantel  Mademoiselle  Irma,  the  favorite  of  the 
master  of  the  apartment,  had  left  the  last  fashionable 
novel,  marking,  with  one  of  her  hairpins,  where  she 
had  left  off  reading.  Ame'de'e  spent  a  delightful  hour 

[74] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

there.  Maurice  always  greeted  him  with  his  joyful, 
kind  manner,  in  which  one  hardly  minded  the  slight 
shade  of  patronage.  He  walked  up  and  down  his 
room,  expanding  his  finely  moulded  chest,  lighting  and 
throwing  away  his  cigarettes,  seating  himself  for  two 
minutes  at  the  piano  and  playing  one  of  Chopin's  sad 
strains,  opening  a  book  and  reading  a  page,  showing 
his  albums  to  his  friend,  making  him  repeat  some  of 
his  poems,  applauding  him  and  touching  lightly  upon 
different  subjects,  and  charming  Ame*dee  more  and 
more  by  his  grace  and  manners. 

However,  Amedee  could  not  enjoy  his  friend  much, 
as  he  rarely  found  him  alone.  Every  few  moments — 
the  key  was  in  the  door — Maurice's  comrades,  young 
pleasure-seekers  like  himself,  but  more  vulgar,  not 
having  his  gentlemanly  bearing  and  manners,  would 
come  to  talk  with  him  of  some  projected  scheme  or 
to  remind  him  of  some  appointment  for  the  evening. 

Often,  some  one  of  them,  with  his  hat  upon  his  head, 
would  dash  off  a  polka,  after  placing  his  lighted  cigar 
upon  the  edge  of  the  piano.  These  fast  fellows  fright- 
ened Amedee  a  little,  as  he  had  the  misfortune  to  be 
fastidious. 

After  these  visitors  had  left,  Maurice  would  ask  his 
friend  to  dinner,  but  the  door  would  open  again,  and 
Mademoiselle  Irma,  in  her  furs  and  small  veil — a  com- 
ical little  face — would  enter  quickly  and  throw  her  arms 
about  Amedee's  neck,  kissing  him,  while  rumpling  his 
hair  with  her  gloved  hands. 

"Bravo!  we  will  all  three  dine  together." 

No!  Ame'de'e  is  afraid  of  Mademoiselle  Irma,  who 

[75] 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

has  already  thrown  her  mantle  upon  the  sofa  and 
crowned  the  bronze  Venus  de  Milo  with  her  otter 
toque.  The  young  man  excuses  himself,  he  is  ex- 
pected at  home. 

"Timid  fellow,  go!"  said  Maurice  to  him,  as  he 
conducted  him  to  the  door,  laughing. 

What  longings!  What  dreams!  They  made  up  all 
of  poor  Amedee's  life.  Sometimes  they  were  sad,  for 
he  suffered  in  seeing  his  father  indulge  himself  more 
and  more  in  his  vice.  No  woman  loved  him,  and  he 
never  had  one  louis  in  his  pocket  for  pleasure  or  liberty. 
But  he  did  not  complain.  His  life  was  noble  and 
happy!  He  smiled  with  pleasure  as  he  thought  of  his 
good  friends;  his  heart  beat  in  great  throbs  as  he 
thought  of  love;  he  wept  with  rapture  over  beautiful 
verses.  The  spectacle  of  life,  through  hope  and  the 
ideal,  seemed  to  him  transfigured.  Happy  Amedee! 
He  was  not  yet  twenty  years  old! 


[76] 


CHAPTER  VII 

A  GENTLE  COUNSELLOR 


sombre,  misty,  winter  morning, 
as  Amedee  lingered  in  his  bed,  his 
father  entered,  bringing  him  a  letter 
that  the  wife  of  the  concierge  had  just 
brought  up.  The  letter  was  from 
Maurice,  inviting  his  friend  to  din- 
ner that  evening  at  seven  o'clock  at 
Foyots,  to  meet  some  of  his  former 
companions  at  the  Lycee  Henri  IV. 

"Will  you  excuse  me  for  not  dining  with  you  this 
evening,  papa?"  said  Ame*dee,  joyfully.  "Maurice 
Roger  entertains  us  at  a  restaurant." 

The  young  man's  gayety  left  him  suddenly  when  he 
looked  at  his  father,  who  had  seated  himself  on  the 
side  of  the  bed.  He  had  become  almost  frightful  to 
look  at;  old  before  his  time,  livid  of  complexion,  his 
eyes  bloodshot,  the  rebellious  lock  of  hair  straggling 
over  his  right  temple.  Nothing  was  more  heartbreak- 
ing than  his  senile  smile  when  he  placed  his  bony 
trembling  hands  upon  his  thighs.  Amedee,  who  knew, 
alas,  why  his  father  had  reached  such  a  pass,  felt  his 
heart  moved  with  pity  and  shame. 

"Are  you  suffering  to-day?"  asked  the  young  man. 
"Would  you  prefer  that  we  should  dine  together  as 

[77] 


FRANCOIS  COPP6E 

usual?  I  will  send  word  to  Maurice.  Nothing  is 
easier." 

"No,  my  child,  no!"  replied  M.  Violette,  in  a  hol- 
low tone.  "Go  and  amuse  yourself  with  your  friends. 
I  know  perfectly  well  that  the  life  you  lead  with  me 
is  too  monotonous.  Go  and  amuse  yourself,  it  will 
please  me — only  there  is  an  idea  that  troubles  me  more 
than  usual — and  I  want  to  confide  it  to  you." 

"What  is  it  then,  dear  papa?" 

"Amedee,  last  March  your  mother  had  been  dead 
fifteen  years.  You  hardly  knew  her.  She  was  the 
sweetest  and  best  of  creatures,  and  all  that  I  can  wish 
you  is,  that  you  may  meet  such  a  woman,  make  her 
your  companion  for  life,  and  be  more  fortunate  than  I, 
my  poor  Amedee,  and  keep  her  always.  During  these 
frightful  years  since  your  mother's  death  I  have  suf- 
fered, do  you  see  ?  suffered  horribly,  and  I  have  never, 
never  been  consoled.  If  I  have  lived — if  I  have  had 
the  strength  to  live,  in  spite  of  all,  it  was  only  for  you 
and  in  remembrance  of  her.  I  think  I  have  nearly 
finished  my  task.  You  are  a  young  man,  intelligent 
and  honest,  and  you  have  now  an  employment  which 
will  give  you  your  bread.  However,  I  often  ask  my- 
self— oh,  very  often — whether  I  have  fulfilled  my  duty 
toward  you.  Ah!  do  not  protest,"  added  the  unhappy 
man,  whom  Amedee  had  clasped  in  his  arms.  "No, 
my  poor  child,  I  have  not  loved  you  sufficiently;  grief 
has  filled  too  large  a  place  in  my  heart;  above  all, 
during  these  last  few  years  I  have  not  been  with  you 
enough.  I  have  sought  solitude.  You  understand 
me,  Amedee,  I  can  not  tell  you  more,"  he  said,  with  a 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

sob.  "There  are  some  parts  of  my  life  that  you  must 
ignore,  and  if  it  grieves  you  to  know  what  I  have  be- 
come during  that  time,  you  must  never  think  of  it; 
forget  it.  I  beg  of  you,  my  child,  do  not  judge  me 
severely.  And  one  of  these  days,  if  I  die — ah!  we 
must  expect  it — the  burden  of  my  grief  is  too  heavy 
for  me  to  bear,  it  crushes  me!  Well,  my  child,  if  I  die, 
promise  me  to  be  indulgent  to  my  memory,  and  when 
you  think  of  your  father  only  say:  'He  was  very  un- 
happy!'" 

Ame'dee  shed  tears  upon  his  father's  shoulder,  who 
softly  stroked  his  son's  beautiful  hair  with  his  trem- 
bling hands. 

"My  father,  my  good  father!"  sobbed  Amedee,  "I 
love  and  respect  you  with  all  my  heart.  I  will  dress 
myself  quickly  and  we  will  go  to  the  office  together; 
we  will  return  the  same  way  and  dine  like  a  pair  of 
good  friends.  I  beg  of  you,  do  not  ask  me  to  leave 
you  to-day!" 

But  M.  Violette  suddenly  arose  as  if  he  had  formed 
some  resolution. 

"No,  Amede'e,"  said  he,  firmly.  "I  have  said  what 
I  had  to  say  to  you,  and  you  will  remember  it.  That 
is  sufficient.  Go  and  amuse  yourself  this  evening  with 
your  friends.  Sadness  is  dangerous  at  your  age.  As 
for  myself,  I  shall  go  to  dine  with  Pere  Bastide,  who 
has  just  received  his  pension,  and  has  invited  me  more 
than  twenty  times  to  come  and  see  his  little  house  at 
Grand  Montrouge.  It  is  understood;  I  wish  it.  Now 
then,  wipe  your  eyes  and  kiss  me." 

Having  tenderly  embraced  his  son,  M.  Violette  left 

[79] 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

the  room.  Amedee  could  hear  him  in  the  vestibule 
take  down  his  hat  and  cane,  open  and  close  the  door, 
and  go  down  the  stairs  with  a  heavy  step.  A  quarter 
of  an  hour  after,  as  the  young  man  was  crossing  the 
Luxembourg  to  go  to  the  office,  he  met  Louise  Gerard 
with  her  roll  of  music  in  her  hand,  going  to  give  some 
lessons  in  the  city.  He  walked  a  few  steps  beside  her, 
and  the  worthy  girl  noticed  his  red  eyes  and  disturbed 
countenance. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you,  Amedee?"  she  in- 
quired, anxiously. 

"Louise,"  he  replied,  "do  you  not  think  that  my 
father  has  changed  very  much  in  the  last  few  months?" 

She  stopped  and  looked  at  him  with  eyes  shining 
with  compassion. 

"Very  much  changed,  my  poor  Amede'e.  You 
would  not  believe  me  if  I  told  you  that  I  had  not 
remarked  it.  But  whatever  may  be  the  cause — how 
shall  I  say  it? — that  has  affected  your  father's  health, 
you  should  think  of  only  one  thing,  my  friend ;  that  is, 
that  he  has  been  tender  and  devoted  to  you;  that  he 
became  a  widower  very  young  and  he  did  not  remarry; 
that  he  has  endured,  in  order  to  devote  himself  to  his 
only  child,  long  years  of  solitude  and  unhappy  mem- 
ories. You  must  think  of  that,  Ame"de*e,  and  that 
only." 

"I  never  shall  forget  it,  Louise,  never  fear;  my 
heart  is  full  of  gratitude.  This  morning,  even,  he  was 
so  affectionate  and  kind  to  me — but  his  health  is 
ruined;  he  is  now  a  weak  old  man.  Soon — I  not  only 
fear  it,  but  I  am  certain  of  it — soon  he  will  be  incapable 

[80] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

of  work.  I  can  see  his  poor  hands  tremble  now.  He 
will  not  even  have  a  right  to  a  pension.  If  he  could 
not  continue  to  work  in  the  office  he  could  hardly 
obtain  a  meagre  relief,  and  that  by  favor  only.  And 
for  long  years  I  can  only  hope  for  an  insufficient  salary. 
Oh !  to  think  that  the  catastrophe  draws  near,  that  one 
of  these  days  he  may  fall  ill  and  become  infirm,  per- 
haps, and  that  we  shall  be  almost  needy  and  I  shall 
be  unable  to  surround  him  with  care  in  his  old  age. 
That  is  what  makes  me  tremble!" 

They  walked  along  side  by  side  upon  the  moist,  soft 
ground  of  the  large  garden,  under  the  leafless  trees, 
where  hung  a  slight  penetrating  mist  which  made  them 
shiver  under  their  wraps. 

"Amede'e,"  said  she,  looking  at  the  young  man  with 
a  serious  gentleness,  "I  have  known  you  from  a  child, 
and  I  am  the  elder.  I  am  twenty-two;  that  makes 
me  almost  an  old  maid,  Amedee,  and  gives  me  the 
right  to  scold  you  a  little.  You  lack  confidence  in  life, 
my  friend,  and  it  is  wrong  at  your  age.  Do  you  think 
I  do  not  see  that  my  father  has  aged  very  much,  that 
his  eyesight  fails,  that  we  are  much  more  cramped  in 
circumstances  in  the  house  than  formerly?  Are  we 
any  the  more  sad  ?  Mamma  makes  fewer  little  dishes 
and  I  teach  in  Paris,  that  is  all.  We  live  nearly  the 
same  as  before,  and  our  dear  Maria — she  is  the  pet  of  us 
all,  the  joy  and  pride  of  the  house — well,  our  Maria,  all 
the  same,  has  from  time  to  time  a  new  frock  or  a  pretty 
hat.  I  have  no  experience,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  in 
order  to  feel  really  unhappy  I  must  have  nobody  to 
love — that  is  the  only  privation  worth  the  trouble  of 
6  [81] 


FRANCOIS  COPPEE 

noticing.  Do  you  know  that  I  have  just  had  one  of 
the  greatest  pleasures  of  my  life  ?  I  noticed  that  papa 
did  not  smoke  as  much  as  usual,  in  order  to  be  eco- 
nomical, poor  man!  Fortunately  I  found  a  new  pupil 
at  Batignolles,  and  as  soon  as  I  had  the  first  month's 
pay  in  my  pocket  I  bought  a  large  package  of  tobacco 
and  put  it  beside  his  work.  One  must  never  com- 
plain so  long  as  one  is  fortunate  enough  to  keep  those 
one  loves.  I  know  the  secret  grief  that  troubles  you 
regarding  your  father;  but  think  what  he  has  suffered, 
that  he  loves  you,  that  you  are  his  only  consolation. 
And  when  you  have  gloomy  thoughts,  come  and  see 
your  old  friends,  Amedee.  They  will  try  to  warm  your 
heart  at  the  fireside  of  their  friendship,  and  to  give  you 
some  of  their  courage,  the  courage  of  poor  people 
which  is  composed  of  a  little  indifference  and  a  little 
resignation." 

They  had  reached  the  Florentine  Terrace,  where 
stand  the  marble  statues  of  queens  and  ladies,  and  on 
the  other  side  of  the  bahistrade,  ornamented  with  large 
vases,  they  could  see  through  the  mist  the  reser- 
voir with  its  two  swans,  the  solitary  gravel  walks,  the 
empty  grass-plots  of  a  pale  green,  surrounded  by  the 
skeletons  of  lilac-trees,  and  the  facade  of  the  old  pal- 
ace, whose  clock-hands  pointed  to  ten. 

"Let  us  hasten,"  said  Louise,  after  a  glance  at  the 
dial.  "Escort  me  as  far  at  the  Ode'on  omnibus.  I 
am  a  little  late." 

As  he  walked  by  her  side  he  looked  at  her.  Alas! 
Poor  Louise  was  not  pretty,  in  spite  of  her  large  eyes, 
so  loving  but  not  coquettish.  She  wore  a  close,  ugly 

[82] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

hat,  a  mantle  drawn  tightly  about  her  shoulders,  col- 
ored gloves,  and  heavy  walking-shoes.  Yes,  she  was 
a  perfect  picture  of  a  "two  francs  an  hour"  music- 
teacher.  What  a  good,  brave  girl!  With  what  an 
overflowing  heart  she  had  spoken  of  her  family!  It 
was  to  earn  tobacco  for  her  father  and  a  new  frock  for 
her  pretty  sister  that  she  left  thus,  so  early  in  the  misty 
morning,  and  rode  in  public  conveyances,  or  tramped 
through  the  streets  of  Paris  in  the  mud.  The  sight  of 
her,  more  than  what  she  said,  gave  the  weak  and  mel- 
ancholy Amedee  courage  and  desire  for  manly  resolu- 
tions. 

"My  dear  Louise,"  said  he,  with  emotion,  "I  am 
very  fortunate  to  have  such  a  friend  as  you,  and  for 
so  many  years!  Do  you  remember  when  we  used  to 
have  our  hunts  after  the  bearskin  cap  when  we  were 
children?" 

They  had  just  left  the  garden  and  found  themselves 
behind  the  Odeon.  Two  tired-out  omnibus  horses,  of 
a  yellowish-white,  and  showing  their  ribs,  were  rubbing 
their  noses  against  each  other  like  a  caress;  then  the 
horse  on  the  left  raised  his  head  and  placed  it  in  a 
friendly  way  upon  the  other's  mane.  Louise  pointed 
to  the  two  animals  and  said  to  Ame'de'e,  smilingly: 

"Their  fate  is  hard,  is  it  not?  No  matter!  they  are 
good  friends,  and  that  is  enough  to  help  them  endure 
it." 

Then,  shaking  hands  with  Amede'e,  she  climbed 
lightly  up  into  the  carriage. 

All  that  day  at  the  office  Amedee  was  uneasy  about 
his  father,  and  about  four  o'clock,  a  little  before  the 

[83] 


FRANCOIS  COPPtiE 

time  for  his  departure,  he  went  to  M.  Violette's  office. 
There  they  told  him  that  his  father  had  just  left,  say- 
ing that  he  would  dine  at  Grand  Montrouge  with  an 
old  friend;  and  Ame'dee,  a  trifle  reassured,  decided  to 
rejoin  his  friend  Maurice  at  the  Foyot  restaurant 


[84] 


CHAPTER  VIII 

BUTTERFLIES  AND  GRASSHOPPERS 

'MEDEE  was  the  first  to  arrive  at 
the  rendezvous.  He  had  hardly  pro- 
nounced Maurice  Roger's  name  when 
a  voice  like  a  cannon  bellowed  out, 
"Now  then!  the  yellow  parlor!" 
and  he  was  conducted  into  a  room 
where  a  dazzling  table  was  laid  by 
a  young  man,  with  a  Yankee  goatee 
and  whiskers,  and  the  agility  of  a  prestidigitateur. 
This  frisky  person  relieved  Amedee  at  once  of  his  hat 
and  coat,  and  left  him  alone  in  the  room,  radiant  with 
lighted  candles. 

Evidently  it  was  to  be  a  banquet.  Piled  up  in  the 
centre  of  the  table  was  a  large  dish  of  crayfish,  and  at 
each  plate — there  were  five — were  groups  of  large  and 
small  glasses. 

Maurice  came  in  almost  immediately,  accompanied 
by  his  other  guests,  three  young  men  dressed  in  the 
latest  fashion,  whom  Amede'e  did  not  at  first  recognize 
as  his  former  comrades,  who  once  wore  wrinkled  stock- 
ings and  seedy  coats,  and  wore  out  with  him  the  seats 
of  their  trousers  on  the  benches  of  the  Lycee  Henri  IV. 
After  the  greetings,  "What!  is  it  you?"  "Do  you 
remember  me?"  and  a  shaking  of  hands,  they  all 
seated  themselves  around  the  table. 

[85] 


FRANCOIS 

What!  is  that  little  dumpy  fellow  with  the  turned-up 
nose,  straight  as  an  arrow  and  with  such  a  satisfied  air, 
Gorju,  who  wanted  to  be  an  actor?  He  is  one  now, 
or  nearly  so,  since  he  studies  with  Regnier  at  the  Con- 
servatoire. A  make-believe  actor,  he  puts  on  airs,  and 
in  the  three  minutes  that  he  has  been  in  the  room  he 
has  looked  at  his  retrousse  nose  and  his  coarse  face, 
made  to  be  seen  from  a  distance,  ten  times  in  the  mir- 
ror. His  first  care  is  to  inform  Amede"e  that  he  has 
renounced  his  name  Gorju,  which  was  an  impossible 
one  for  the  theatre,  and  has  taken  that  of  Jocquelet. 
Then,  without  losing  a  moment,  he  refers  to  his  "tal- 
ents," "charms,"  and  "physique." 

Who  is  this  handsome  fellow  with  such  neat  side- 
whiskers,  whose  finely  cut  features  suggest  an  intaglio 
head,  and  who  has  just  placed  a  lawyer's  heavy  port- 
folio upon  the  sofa?  It  is  Arthur  Papillon,  the  dis- 
tinguished Latin  scholar  who  wished  to  organize  a 
debating  society  at  the  Lycee,  and  to  divide  the  rhetoric 
class  into  groups  and  sub-groups  like  a  parliament. 
"What  have  you  been  doing,  Papillon?"  Papillon 
had  studied  law,  and  was  secretary  of  the  Patru  Con- 
ference, of  course. 

Amedee  immediately  recognized  the  third  guest. 

"What!  Gustave!"  exclaimed  he,  joyously. 

Yes!  Gustave,  the  former  "dunce,"  the  one  they 
had  called  "Good-luck"  because  his  father  had  made 
an  immense  fortune  in  guano.  Not  one  bit  changed 
was  Gustave!  The  same  deep-set  eyes  and  greenish 
complexion.  But  what  style!  English  from  the  tips 
of  his  pointed  shoes  to  the  horseshoe  scarfpin  in  his 

[86] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

necktie.  One  would  say  that  he  was  a  horse- jockey 
dressed  in  his  Sunday  best.  What  was  this  comical 
Gustave  doing  now?  Nothing.  His  father  has  made 
two  hundred  thousand  pounds'  income  dabbling  in  cer- 
tain things,  and  Gustave  is  getting  acquainted  with 
life,  that  is  all — which  means  to  wake  up  every  morn- 
ing toward  noon,  with  a  bitter  mouth  caused  from  the 
last  night's  supper,  and  to  be  surprised  every  morning 
at  dawn  at  the  baccarat  table,  after  spending  five  hours 
saying  "Bac!"  in  a  stifled,  hollow  voice.  Gustave 
understands  life,  and,  taking  into  consideration  his 
countenance  like  a  death's-head,  it  may  lead  him  to 
make  the  acquaintance  of  something  entirely  different. 
But  who  thinks  of  death  at  his  age?  Gustave  wishes 
to  know  life,  and  when  a  fit  of  coughing  interrupts  him 
in  one  of  his  idiotic  bursts  of  laughter,  his  comrades 
at  the  Gateux  Club  tell  him  that  he  has  swallowed  the 
wrong  way.  Wretched  Gustave,  so  be  it ! 

Meanwhile  the  boy  with  the  juggler's  motions  ap- 
peared with  the  soup,  and  made  exactly  the  same 
gestures  when  he  uncovered  the  tureen  as  Robert 
Houdin  would  have  made,  and  one  was  surprised  not 
to  see  a  bunch  of  flowers  or  a  live  rabbit  fly  out.  But 
no!  it  was  simply  soup,  and  the  guests  attacked  it 
vigorously  and  in  silence.  After  the  Rhine  wine  all 
tongues  were  unloosened,  and  as  soon  as  they  had 
eaten  the  Normandy  sole — oh!  what  glorious  appe- 
tites at  twenty  years  of  age! — the  five  young  men  all 
talked  at  once.  What  a  racket !  Exclamations  crossed 
one  another  like  rockets.  Gustave,  forcing  his  weak 
voice,  boasted  of  the  performances  of  a  "stepper" 

[87] 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

that  he  had  tried  that  morning  in  the  Alice  des  Cava- 
liers. He  would  have  been  much  better  off  had  he 
stayed  in  his  bed  and  taken  cod-liver  oil.  Maurice 
called  out  to  the  boy  to  uncork  the  Chateau-Leoville. 
Amedee,  having  spoken  of  his  drama  to  the  comedian 
Gorju,  called  Jocquelet,  that  person,  speaking  in  his 
bugle-like  voice  that  came  through  his  bugle-shaped 
nose,  set  himself  up  at  once  as  a  man  of  experience, 
giving  his  advice,  and  quoting,  with  admiration, 
Talma's  famous  speech  to  a  dramatic  poet:  "Above 
all,  no  fine  verses!"  Arthur  Papillon,  who  was  des- 
tined for  the  courts,  thought  it  an  excellent  time  to 
lord  it  over  the  tumult  of  the  assembly  himself,  and 
bleated  out  a  speech  of  Jules  Favre  that  he  had  heard 
the  night  before  in  the  legislative  assembly. 

The  timid  Amedee  was  defeated  at  the  start  in  this 
melee  of  conversation.  Maurice  also  kept  silent,  with 
a  slightly  disdainful  smile  under  his  golden  moustache, 
and  an  attack  of  coughing  soon  disabled  Gustave. 
Alone,  like  two  ships  in  line  who  let  out,  turn  by  turn, 
their  volleys,  the  lawyer  and  the  actor  continued  their 
cannonading.  Arthur  Papillon,  who  belonged  to  the 
Liberal  opposition  and  wished  that  the  Imperial  govern- 
ment should  come  around  to  "a  pacific  and  regular 
movement  of  parliamentary  institutions,"  was  listened 
to  for  a  time,  and  explained,  in  a  clear,  full  voice  the 
last  article  in  the  Courrier  du  Dimanche.  But,  burst- 
ing out  in  his  terrible  voice,  which  seemed  like  all  of 
Gideon's  trumpets  blowing  at  once,  the  comedian  took 
up  the  offensive,  and  victoriously  declared  a  hundred 
foolish  things — saying,  for  example,  that  the  part  of 

[88] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

Alceste  should  be  made  a  comic  one;  making  fun  of 
Shakespeare  and  Hugo,  exalting  Scribe,  and  in  spite 
of  his  profile  and  hooked  nose,  which  should  have 
opened  the  doors  of  the  Theatre-Francais  and  given 
him  an  equal  share  for  life  in  its  benefits,  he  affirmed 
that  he  intended  to  play  lovers'  parts,  and  that  he 
meant  to  assume  the  responsibility  of  making  "sympa- 
thetic" the  role  of  Nero,  in  Britannicus. 

This  would  have  become  terribly  tiresome,  but  for 
the  entrance  upon  the  scene  of  some  truffled  partridges, 
which  the  juggler  carved  and  distributed  in  less  time 
than  it  would  take  to  shuffle  a  pack  of  cards.  He 
even  served  the  very  worst  part  of  the  bird  to  the  sim- 
ple Amedee,  as  he  would  force  him  to  choose  the  nine 
of  spades.  Then  he  poured  out  the  chambertin,  and 
once  more  all  heads  became  excited,  and  the  conversa- 
tion fell,  as  was  inevitable,  upon  the  subject  of  women. 

Jocquelet  began  it,  by  speaking  the  name  of  one  of 
the  prettiest  actresses  in  Paris.  He  knew  them  all  and 
described  them  exactly,  detailing  their  beauties  like  a 
slave-dealer. 

"So  little  Lucille  Prunelle  is  a  friend  of  the  great 
Moncontour ' ' 

"Pardon  me,"  interrupted  Gustave,  who  was  look- 
ing badly,  "she  has  already  left  him  for  Cerfbeer  the 
banker." 

"I  say  she  has  not." 

"I  say  that  she  has." 

They  would  have  quarrelled  if  Maurice,  with  his 
affable,  bantering  air,  had  not  attacked  Arthur  Papillon 
on  the  subject  of  his  love-affairs;  for  the  young  advo- 

[89] 


FRANCOIS 

cate  drank  many  cups  of  Orleanist  tea,  going  even 
into  the  same  drawing-rooms  as  Beule  and  Prevost- 
Paradol,  and  accompanying  political  ladies  to  the  re- 
ceptions at  the  Academie  Francaise. 

"That  is  where  you  must  make  havoc,  you  rascal!" 

But  Papillon  defends  himself  with  conceited  smiles 
and  meaning  looks.  According  to  him — and  he  puts 
his  two  thumbs  into  the  armholes  of  his  vest — the 
ambitious  must  be  chaste. 

"Abstineo  venere,"  said  he,  lowering  his  eyes  in  a 
comical  manner,  for  he  did  not  fear  Latin  quotations. 
However,  he  declared  himself  very  hard  to  please  in 
that  matter;  he  dreamed  of  an  Egeria,  a  superior 
mind.  What  he  did  not  tell  them  was,  that  a  dress- 
maker's little  errand-girl,  with  whom  he  had  tried  to 
converse  as  he  left  the  law-school,  had  surveyed  him 
from  head  to  foot  and  threatened  him  with  the  police. 

Upon  some  new  joke  of  Maurice's,  the  lawyer  gave 
his  amorous  programme  in  the  following  terms: 

"Understand  me,  a  woman  must  be  as  intelligent 
as  Hypatia,  and  have  the  sensibility  of  Heloise;  the 
smile  of  a  Joconde,  and  the  limbs  of  an  Antiope;  and, 
even  then,  if  she  had  not  the  throat  of  a  Venus  de 
Medicis,  I  should  not  love  her." 

Without  going  quite  so  far,  the  actor  showed  himself 
none  the  less  exacting.  According  to  his  ideas,  De- 
borah, the  tragedienne  at  the  Odeon — a  Greek  statue! 
— had  too  large  hands,  and  the  fascinating  Blanche 
Pompon  at  the  Varietes  was  a  mere  wax  doll. 

Gustave,  after  all,  was  the  one  who  is  most  intract- 
able; excited  by  the  Bordeaux  wine — a  glass  of  min- 

[90] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

eral  water  would  be  best  for  him — he  proclaimed  that 
the  most  beautiful  creature  was  agreeable  to  him  only 
for  one  day;  that  it  was  a  matter  of  principle,  and  that 
he  had  never  made  but  one  exception,  in  favor  of  the 
illustrious  dancer  at  the  Casino  Cadet,  Nina  PAuverg- 
nate,  because  she  was  so  comical!  "Oh!  my  friends, 
she  is  so  droll,  she  is  enough  to  kill  one!" 

"To  kill  one!"  Yes!  my  dear  Monsieur  Gustave, 
that  is  what  will  happen  to  you  one  of  these  fine  morn- 
ings, if  you  do  not  decide  to  lead  a  more  reasonable 
life — and  on  the  condition  that  you  pass  your  winters 
in  the  South,  also! 

Poor  Amedee  was  in  torture;  all  his  illusions — 
desires  and  sentiments  blended — were  cruelly  wounded. 
Then,  he  had  just  discovered  a  deplorable  faculty;  a 
new  cause  for  being  unhappy.  The  sight  of  this  fool- 
ishness made  him  suffer.  How  these  coarse  young  men 
lied!  Gustave  seemed  to  him  a  genuine  idiot,  Arthur 
Papillon  a  pedant,  and  as  to  Jocquelet,  he  was  as  un- 
bearable as  a  large  fly  buzzing  between  the  glass  and 
the  curtain  of  a  nervous  man's  room.  Fortunately, 
Maurice  made  a  little  diversion  by  bursting  into  a 
laugh. 

"Well,  my  friends,  you  are  all  simpletons,"  he  ex- 
claimed. "I  am  not  like  you,  thank  fortune!  I  do 
not  sputter  over  my  soup.  Long  life  to  women!  Yes, 
all  of  them,  pretty  and  otherwise!  For,  upon  my 
word,  there  are  no  ugly  ones.  I  do  not  notice  that 
Miss  Keepsake  has  feet  like  the  English,  and  I  forget 
the  barmaid's  ruddy  complexion,  if  she  is  attractive 
otherwise.  Now  do  not  talk  in  this  stupid  fashion,  but 


FRANCOIS  COPPEE 

do  as  I  do ;  nibble  all  the  apples  while  you  have  teeth. 
Do  you  know  the  reason  why,  at  the  moment  that  I 
am  talking  to  the  lady  of  the  house,  I  notice  the  nose 
of  the  pretty  waitress  who  brings  in  a  letter  on  a  salver  ? 
Do  you  know  the  reason  why,  just  as  I  am  leaving 
Cydalize's  house,  who  has  put  a  rose  in  my  button- 
hole, that  I  turn  my  head  at  the  passing  of  Margoton, 
who  is  returning  from  the  market  with  a  basket  upon 
her  arm?  It  is  because  it  is  one  other  of  my  children. 
One  other!  that  is  a  great  word!  Yes,  one  thousand 
and  three.  Don  Juan  was  right.  I  feel  his  blood 
coursing  in  my  veins.  And  now  the  boy  shall  uncork 
some  champagne,  shall  he  not?  to  drink  to  the  health 
of  love!" 

Maurice  was  cynical,  but  this  exposition  of  his  phi- 
losophy served  a  good  purpose  all  the  same.  Every- 
body applauded  him.  The  prestidigitateur,  who 
moved  about  the  table  like  a  schoolboy  in  a  monkey- 
house,  drew  the  cork  from  a  bottle  of  Roederer — it  was 
astonishing  that  fireworks  did  not  dart  out  of  it — and 
good-humor  was  restored.  It  reigned  noisily  until  the 
end  of  the  repast,  when  the  effect  was  spoiled  by  that 
fool  of  a  Gustave.  He  insisted  upon  drinking  three 
glasses  of  kummel — why  had  they  not  poured  in  maple 
sirup? — and,  imagining  that  Jocquelet  looked  at  him 
askance,  he  suddenly  manifested  the  intention  of  cutting 
his  head  open  with  the  carafe.  The  comedian,  who  was 
very  pale,  recalled  all  the  scenes  of  provocation  that 
he  had  seen  in  the  theatre;  he  stiffened  in  his  chair, 
swelled  out  his  chest,  and  stammered,  "At  your  orders!" 
trying  to  "play  the  situation."  But  it  was  useless. 

[92] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

Gustave,  restrained  by  Maurice  and  Amedee,  and  as 
drunk  as  a  Pole,  responded  to  his  friend's  objurgations 
by  a  torrent  of  tears,  and  fell  under  the  table,  breaking 
some  of  the  dishes. 

"Now,  then,  we  must  take  the  baby  home,"  said 
Maurice,  signing  to  the  boy.  In  the  twinkling  of  an 
eye  the  human  rag  called  Gustave  was  lifted  into  a 
chair,  clothed  in  his  topcoat  and  hat,  dressed  and 
spruced  up,  pushed  down  the  spiral  staircase,  and 
landed  in  a  cab.  Then  the  prestidigitateur  returned 
and  performed  his  last  trick  by  making  the  plate  dis- 
appear upon  which  Maurice  had  thrown  some  money 
to  pay  the  bill. 

It  was  not  far  from  eleven  o'clock  when  the  com- 
rades shook  hands,  in  a  thick  fog,  in  which  the  gas- 
lights looked  like  the  orange  pedlers'  paper  lanterns. 
Ugh!  how  damp  it  was! 

"Good-by." 

"I  will  see  you  again  soon." 

"Good-night  to  the  ladies." 

Arthur  Papillon  was  in  evening  dress  and  white 
cravat,  his  customary  attire  every  evening,  and  still 
had  time  to  show  himself  in  a  political  salon  on  the 
left  side,  where  he  met  Moichod,  the  author  of  that 
famous  Histoire  de  Napoleon,  in  which  he  proves  that 
Napoleon  was  only  a  mediocre  general,  and  that  all 
his  battles  were  gained  by  his  lieutenants.  Jocquelet 
wished  to  go  to  the  Odeon  and  hear,  for  the  tenth  time, 
the  fifth  act  of  a  piece  of  the  common-sense  school,  in 
which  the  hero,  after  haranguing  against  money  for 
four  acts  in  badly  rhymed  verse,  ends  by  marrying  the 

[93] 


FRANCOIS  COPPtiE 

young  heiress,  to  the  great  satisfaction  of  the  bourgeois. 
As  to  Maurice,  before  he  went  to  rejoin  Mademoiselle 
Irma  at  the  Rue  Monsieur-le-Prince,  he  walked  part 
of  the  way  with  Amedee. 

"These  comrades  of  ours  are  a  little  stupid,  aren't 
they?"  said  he  to  his  friend. 

"I  must  say  that  they  almost  disgust  me,"  replied 
the  young  man.  "Their  brutal  way  of  speaking  of 
women  and  love  wounded  me,  and  you  too,  Maurice. 
So  much  the  worse!  I  will  be  honest;  you,  who  are 
so  refined  and  proud,  tell  me  that  you  did  not  mean 
what  you  said — that  you  made  a  pretence  of  vice  just 
to  please  the  others.  It  is  not  possible  that  you  are 
content  simply  to  gratify  your  appetite  and  make  your- 
self a  slave  to  your  passions.  You  ought  to  have  a 
higher  ideal.  Your  conscience  must  reproach  you." 

Maurice  brusquely  interrupted  this  tirade,  laughing 
in  advance  at  what  he  was  about  to  say. 

"My  conscience?  Oh,  tender  and  artless  Violette; 
Oh,  modest  wood-flower!  Conscience,  my  poor  friend, 
is  like  a  Suede  glove,  you  can  wear  it  soiled.  Adieu! 
We  will  talk  of  this  another  day,  when  Mademoiselle 
Irma  is  not  waiting  for  me." 

Amede'e  walked  on  alone,  shivering  in  the  mist, 
weary  and  sad,  to  the  Rue  Notre-Dame-des-Champs. 

No!  it  could  not  be  true.  There  must  be  another 
love  than  that  known  to  these  brutes.  There  were 
other  women  besides  the  light  creatures  they  had 
spoken  of.  His  thoughts  reverted  to  the  companion 
of  his  childhood,  to  the  pretty  little  Maria,  and  again 
he  sees  her  sewing  near  the  family  lamp,  and  talking 

[94] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

with  him  without  raising  her  eyes,  while  he  admires 
her  beautiful,  drooping  lashes.  He  is  amazed  to  think 
that  this  delicious  child's  presence  has  never  given  him 
the  slightest  uneasiness;  that  he  has  never  thought  of 
any  other  happiness  than  that  of  being  near  her.  Why 
should  not  a  love  like  that  he  has  dreamed  of  some  day 
spring  up  in  her  own  heart  ?  Have  they  not  grown  up 
together?  Is  he  not  the  only  young  man  that  she 
knows  intimately?  What  happiness  to  become  her 
fiance" !  Yes,  it  was  thus  that  one  should  love !  Here- 
after he  would  flee  from  all  temptations;  he  would 
pass  all  his  evenings  with  the  Gerards;  he  would  keep 
as  near  as  possible  to  his  dear  Maria,  content  to  hear 
her  speak,  to  see  her  smile;  and  he  would  wait  with 
a  heart  full  of  tenderness  for  the  moment  when  she 
would  consent  to  become  his  wife.  Oh!  the  exquisite 
union  of  two  chaste  beings!  the  adorable  kiss  of  two 
innocent  mouths!  Did  such  happiness  really  exist? 

This  beautiful  dream  warmed  the  young  man's 
heart,  and  he  reached  his  home  joyous  and  happy. 
He  gave  a  vigorous  pull  to  the  bell,  climbed  quickly  up 
the  long  flights  of  stairs  and  opened  the  door  to  their 
apartment.  But  what  was  this  ?  His  father  must  have 
come  home  very  late,  for  a  stream  of  light  shines  under 
the  door  of  his  sleeping-room. 

"Poor  man!"  thought  Amedee,  recalling  the  scene 
of  the  morning.  "He  may  be  ill.  Let  us  see." 

He  had  hardly  opened  the  door,  when  he  drew  back 
uttering  a  shriek  of  horror  and  distress.  By  the  light 
of  a  candle  that  burned  upon  the  mantel,  Amedee  had 
caught  sight  of  his  father  extended  upon  the  floor,  his 

[95] 


shirt  disordered  and  covered  with  blood,  holding  in  his 
clenched  right  hand  the  razor  with  which  he  had  cut 
his  throat. 

Yes!  the  union  of  two  loving  hearts  had  at  last 
taken  place.  Their  love  was  happiness  on  earth;  but 
if  one  of  the  two  dies  the  other  can  never  be  consoled 
while  life  lasts. 

M.  Violette  never  was  consoled. 


[96] 


CHAPTER  IX 

THORNS  OF  JEALOUSY 

JOW  Amedee  had  no  family.  The  day 
after  his  father's  death  he  had  a 
violent  rupture  with  M.  Isidore  Gau- 
fre.  Under  the  pretext  that  a  suicide 
horrified  him,  he  allowed  his  niece's 
husband  to  be  carried  to  the  ceme- 
tery in  a  sixth-class  hearse,  and  did 
not  honor  with  his  presence  the  fu- 
neral, which  was  even  prohibited  from  using  the  parish 
road.  But  the  saintly  man  was  not  deterred  from 
swallowing  for  his  dinner  that  same  day,  while  thun- 
dering against  the  progress  of  materialism,  tripe  cooked 
after  the  Caen  fashion,  one  of  Berenice's  weekly  works 
of  art. 

Amedee  had  now  no  family,  and  his  friends  were 
dispersed.  As  a  reward  for  passing  his  examinations 
in  law,  Madame  Roger  took  her  son  with  her  on  a 
trip  to  Italy,  and  they  had  just  left  France  together. 

As  to  the  poor  Gerards,  just  one  month  after  M. 
Violette's  death,  the  old  engraver  died  suddenly,  of 
apoplexy,  at  his  work;  and  on  that  day  there  were 
not  fifty  francs  in  the  house.  Around  the  open  grave 
where  they  lowered  the  obscure  and  honest  artist, 
there  was  only  a  group  of  three  women  in  black,  who 
7  [97] 


FRANCOIS 

were  weeping,  and  Amedee  in  mourning  for  his  father, 
with  a  dozen  of  Gerard's  old  comrades,  whose  ro- 
mantic heads  had  become  gray.  The  family  was 
obliged  to  sell  at  once,  in  order  to  get  a  little  money, 
what  remained  of  proof-sheets  in  the  boxes,  some 
small  paintings,  old  presents  from  artist  friends  who 
had  become  celebrated,  and  the  last  of  the  ruined 
knickknacks — indeed,  all  that  constituted  the  charm 
of  the  house.  Then,  in  order  that  her  eldest  daughter 
might  not  be  so  far  from  the  boarding-school  where 
she  was  employed  as  teacher  of  music,  Madame  Gerard 
went  to  live  in  the  Rue  St.-Pierre,  in  Montmartre, 
where  they  found  a  little  cheap,  first-floor  apartment, 
with  a  garden  as  large  as  one's  hand. 

Now  that  he  was  reduced  to  his  one  hundred  and 
twenty-five  francs,  Amedee  was  obliged  to  leave  his 
too  expensive  apartment  in  the  Rue  Notre-Dame-des- 
Champs,  and  to  sell  the  greater  part  of  his  family 
furniture.  He  kept  only  his  books  and  enough  to  fur- 
nish his  little  room,  perched  under  the  roof  of  an  old 
house  in  the  Faubourg  St.- Jacques. 

It  was  far  from  Montmartre,  so  he  could  not  see 
his  friends  as  often  as  he  would  have  liked,  those 
friends  whom  grief  in  common  had  made  dearer  than 
ever  to  him.  One  single  consolation  remained  for  him 
— literary  work.  He  threw  himself  into  it  blindly, 
deadening  his  sorrow  with  the  fruitful  and  wonderful 
opiate  of  poetry  and  dreams.  However,  he  had  now 
begun  to  make  headway,  feeling  that  he  had  some- 
thing new  to  say.  He  had  long  ago  thrown  into  the 
fire  his  first  poems,  awkward  imitations  of  favorite 

[98] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

authors,  also  his  drama  after  the  style  of  1830,  where 
the  two  lovers  sang  a  duet  at  the  foot  of  the  scaffold. 
He  returned  to  truth  and  simplicity  by  the  longest 
way,  the  schoolboy's  road.  Taste  and  inclination 
both  induced  him  to  express  simply  and  honestly  what 
he  saw  before  him;  to  express,  so  far  as  he  could,  the 
humble  ideal  of  the  poor  people  with  whom  he  had 
lived  in  the  melancholy  Parisian  suburbs  where  his 
infancy  was  passed;  in  a  word,  to  paint  from  nature. 
He  tried,  feeling  that  he  could  succeed;  and  in  those 
days  lived  the  most  beautiful  and  perfect  hours  of 
his  life — those  in  which  the  artist,  already  master  of 
his  instrument,  having  still  the  abundance  and  vivacity 
of  youthful  sensations,  writes  the  first  words  that  he 
knows  to  be  good,  and  writes  them  with  entire  dis- 
interestedness, not  even  thinking  that  others  will  see 
them;  working  for  himself  alone  and  for  the  sole  joy 
of  putting  in  visible  form  and  spreading  abroad  his 
ideas,  his  thoughts — all  his  heart.  Those  moments 
of  pure  enthusiasm  and  perfect  happiness  he  never 
could  know  again,  even  after  he  had  nibbled  at  the 
savory  food  of  success  and  had  experienced  the  feverish 
desire  for  glory.  Delicious  hours  they  were,  and  sa- 
cred, too,  such  as  can  only  be  compared  to  the  divine 
intoxication  of  first  love. 

Ame'dee  worked  courageously  during  the  winter 
months  that  followed  his  father's  death.  He  arose  at 
six  o'clock  in  the  morning,  lighted  his  lamp  and  the 
little  stove  which  heated  his  room,  and,  walking  up 
and  down,  leaning  over  his  page,  the  poet  would  vig- 
orously begin  his  struggle  with  fancies,  ideas,  and 

[99] 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

words.  At  nine  o'clock  he  would  go  out  and  break- 
fast at  a  neighboring  creamery;  after  which  he  would 
go  to  his  office.  There,  his  tiresome  papers  once 
written,  he  had  two  or  three  hours  of  leisure,  which 
he  employed  hi  reading  and  taking  notes  from  the 
volumes  borrowed  by  him  every  morning  at  a  reading- 
room  on  the  Rue  Royer-Collard ;  for  he  had  already 
learned  that  one  leaves  college  almost  ignorant,  hav- 
ing, at  best,  only  learned  how  to  study.  He  left  the 
office  at  nightfall  and  reached  his  room  through  the 
Boulevard  des  Invalides,  and  Montparnasse,  which 
at  this  time  was  still  planted  with  venerable  elms; 
sometimes  the  lamplighter  would  be  ahead  of  him, 
making  the  large  gas-jets  shoot  out  under  the  leafless 
old  trees.  This  walk,  that  Ame'dee  imposed  upon 
himself  for  health's  sake,  would  bring  him,  about  six 
o'clock,  a  workman's  appetite  for  his  dinner,  in  the 
little  creamery  situated  in  front  of  Val-de-Grace,  where 
he  had  formed  the  habit  of  going.  Then  he  would 
return  to  his  garret,  and  relight  his  stove  and  lamp, 
and  work  until  midnight.  This  ardent,  continuous 
effort,  this  will-tension  kept  in  his  mind  the  warmth, 
animation,  and  excitement  indispensable  for  poetical 
production.  His  mind  expanded  rapidly,  ready  to 
receive  the  germs  that  were  blown  to  him  by  the 
mysterious  winds  of  inspiration.  At  times  he  was 
astonished  to  see  his  pen  fill  the  sheet  so  rapidly  that 
he  would  stop,  filled  with  pride  at  having  thus  reduced 
to  obedience  words  and  rhythms,  and  would  ask  him- 
self what  supernatural  power  had  permitted  him  to 
charm  these  divine  wild  birds. 

[100] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

On  Sundays,  he  had  his  meals  brought  him  by  the 
concierge,  working  all  day  and  not  going  out  until 
nearly  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  to  dine  with 
Mamma  Gerard.  It  was  the  only  distraction  that 
he  allowed  himself,  or  rather  the  only  recompense 
that  he  permitted  himself.  He  walked  halfway  across 
Paris  to  buy  a  cake  in  the  Rue  Fontaine  for  their 
dessert;  then  he  climbed  without  fatigue,  thanks  to 
his  young  legs,  to  the  top  of  Montmartre,  lighted  by 
swinging  lamps,  where  one  could  almost  believe  one's 
self  in  the  distant  corner  of  some  province.  They 
would  be  waiting  for  him  to  serve  the  soup,  and  the 
young  man  would  seat  himself  between  the  widow 
and  the  two  orphans. 

Alas,  how  hard  these  poor  ladies'  lives  had  become! 
Damourette,  a  member  of  the  Institute,  remembered 
that  he  had  once  joked  in  the  studios  with  Gerard, 
and  obtained  a  small  annual  pension  for  the  widow; 
but  it  was  charity — hardly  enough  to  pay  the  rent. 
Fortunately  Louise,  who  already  looked  like  an  old 
maid  at  twenty-three,  going  about  the  city  all  day  with 
her  roll  of  music  under  her  black  shawl,  had  many 
pupils,  and  more  than  twenty  houses  had  well-nigh 
become  uninhabitable  through  her  exertions  with  lit- 
tle girls,  whose  red  hands  made  an  unendurable  racket 
with  their  chromatic  scales.  Louise's  earnings  con- 
stituted the  surest  part  of  their  revenue.  What  a 
strange  paradox  is  the  social  life  in  large  cities,  where 
Weber's  Last  Waltz  will  bring  the  price  of  a  four- 
pound  loaf  of  bread,  and  one  pays  the  grocer  with  the 
proceeds  of  Boccherini's  Minuet! 

[101] 


FRANCOIS  COPPtfE 

In  spite  of  all,  they  had  hard  work  to  make  both 
ends  meet  at  the  Gerards.  The  pretty  Maria  wished 
to  make  herself  useful  and  aid  her  mother  and  sister. 
She  had  always  shown  great  taste  for  drawing,  and 
her  father  used  to  give  her  lessons  in  pastel.  Now 
she  went  to  the  Louvre  to  work,  and  tried  to  copy 
the  Chardins  and  Latours.  She  went  there  alone.  It 
was  a  little  imprudent,  she  was  so  pretty;  but  Louise 
had  no  time  to  go  with  her,  and  her  mother  had  to 
be  at  home  to  attend  to  the  housework  and  cooking. 
Maria's  appearance  had  already  excited  the  hearts  of 
several  young  daubers.  There  were  several  cases  of 
persistent  sadness  and  loss  of  appetite  in  Flandrin's 
studio;  and  two  of  Signol's  pupils,  who  were  surprised 
hovering  about  the  young  artist,  were  hated  secretly 
as  rivals;  certain  projects  of  duels,  after  the  American 
fashion,  were  profoundly  considered.  To  say  that 
Maria  was  not  a  little  flattered  to  see  all  these  admirers 
turn  timidly  and  respectfully  toward  her;  to  pretend 
that  she  took  off  her  hat  and  hung  it  on  one  corner  of 
her  easel  because  the  heat  from  the  furnace  gave  her 
neuralgia  and  not  to  show  her  beautiful  hair,  would 
be  as  much  of  a  lie  as  a  politician's  promise.  How- 
ever, the  little  darling  was  very  serious,  or  at  least 
tried  to  be.  She  worked  conscientiously  and  made 
some  progress.  Her  last  copy  of  the  portrait  of  that 
Marquise  who  holds  a  pug  dog  in  her  lap,  with  a  rib- 
bon about  his  neck,  was  not  very  bad.  This  copy 
procured  a  piece  of  good  luck  for  the  young  artist. 

Pere  Issacar,  a  bric-a-brac  merchant  on  the  Quay 
Voltaire — an  old-fashioned  Jew  with  a  filthy  overcoat, 

[102] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

the  very  sight  of  which  made  one  long  to  tear  it  off — 
approached  Maria  one  day,  just  as  she  was  about  to 
sketch  a  rose  in  the  Marquise's  powdered  wig,  and 
after  raising  a  hat  greasy  enough  to  make  the  soup 
for  a  whole  regiment,  said  to  her: 

"  Matemoiselle,  vould  you  make  me  von  dozen 
vamily  bordraits?" 

The  young  girl  did  not  at  first  understand  his  abom- 
inable language,  but  at  last  he  made  her  comprehend. 

Every  thing  is  bought  nowadays,  even  rank,  pro- 
vided, of  course,  that  one  has  a  purse  sufficiently  well 
filled.  Nothing  is  simpler!  In  return  for  a  little 
money  you  can  procure  at  the  Vatican — second  cor- 
ridor on  your  right,  third  door  at  the  left — a  brand- 
new  title  of  Roman  Count.  A  heraldic  agency — see 
advertisement — will  plant  and  make  grow  at  your  will 
a  genealogical  tree,  under  whose  shade  you  can  give  a 
country  breakfast  to  twenty-five  people.  You  buy  a 
castle  with  port-holes — port-holes  are  necessary — in 
a  corner  of  some  reactionary  province.  You  call 
upon  the  lords  of  the  surrounding  castles  with  a  gold 
fleur-de-lys  in  your  cravat.  You  pose  as  an  enraged 
Legitimist  and  ferocious  Clerical.  You  give  dinners 
and  hunting  parties,  and  the  game  is  won.  I  will 
wager  that  your  son  will  marry  into  a  Faubourg  St- 
Germain  family,  a  family  which  descends  authentically 
from  the  Crusaders. 

In  order  to  execute  this  agreeable  buffoonery,  you 
must  not  forget  certain  accessories — particularly  por- 
traits of  your  ancestors.  They  should  ornament  the 
castle  walls  where  you  regale  the  country  nobles.  One 

[103] 


FRANCOIS 

must  use  tact  in  the  selection  of  this  family  gallery. 
There  must  be  no  exaggeration.  Do  not  look  too 
high.  Do  not  claim  as  a  founder  of  your  race  a  knight 
in  armor  hideously  painted]  upon  wood,  with  his  coat 
of  arms  in  one  corner  of  the  panel.  Bear  in  mind  the 
date  of  chivalry.  Be  satisfied  with  the  head  of  a 
dynasty  whose  gray  beard  hangs  over  a  well-crimped 
ruff.  I  saw  a  very  good  example  of  that  kind  the 
other  day  on  the  Place  Royale.  A  dog  was  just  show- 
ing his  disrespect  for  it  as  I  passed.  You  can  obtain 
an  ancestor  like  this  in  the  outskirts  of  the  city  for 
fifteen  francs,  if  you  haggle  a  little.  Or  you  need  not 
give  yourself  so  much  trouble.  Apply  to  a  specialist, 
Pere  Issacar,  for  instance.  He  will  procure  mag- 
nificent ancestors  for  you;  not  dear  either!  If  you 
will  consent  to  descend  to  simple  magistrates,  the  price 
will  be  insignificant.  Chief  justices  are  dirt  cheap. 
Naturally,  if  you  wish  to  be  of  the  military  profession, 
to  have  eminent  clergy  among  your  antecedents,  the 
price  increases.  Pere  Issacar  is  the  only  one  who 
can  give  you,  at  a  reasonable  rate,  ermine-draped 
bishops,  or  a  colonel  with  a  Louis  XIV  wig,  and,  if 
you  wish  it,  a  blue  ribbon  and  a  breast-plate  under 
his  red  coat.  What  produces  a  good  effect  in  a  series 
of  family  portraits  is  a  series  of  pastels.  What  would 
you  say  to  a  goggle-eyed  abbe,  or  an  old  lady  indecently 
decolletee,  or  a  captain  of  dragoons  wearing  a  tiger- 
skin  cap  (it  is  ten  francs  more  if  he  has  the  cross  of 
St.  Louis)  ?  Pere  Issacar  knows  his  business,  and  al- 
ways has  in  reserve  thirty  of  these  portraits  in  charm- 
ing frames  of  the  period,  made  expressly  for  him  in  the 

[104] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

Faubourg  St.-Antoine,  and  which  have  all  been  buried 
fifteen  days  and  riddled  with  shot,  in  order  to  have  the 
musty  appearance  and  indispensable  worm  holes. 

You  can  understand  now  why  the  estimable  Jew, 
in  passing  through  the  Louvre  for  his  weekly  prome- 
nade, took  an  interest  in  little  Maria  copying  the 
charming  Marquise  de  Latour.  He  was  just  at  this 
time  short  of  powdered  marquises,  and  they  are  always 
very  much  in  demand.  He  begged  the  young  woman 
to  take  her  copy  home  and  make  twelve  more  of  it, 
varying  only  the  color  of  the  dress  and  some  partic- 
ular detail  in  each  portrait.  Thus,  instead  of  the  pug 
dog,  marquise  No.  i  would  hold  a  King  Charles 
spaniel,  No.  2  a  monkey,  No.  3  a  bonbon  box,  No.  4 
a  fan.  The  face  could  remain  the  same.  All  mar- 
quises looked  alike  to  Pere  Issacar;  he  only  exacted 
that  they  should  all  be  provided  with  two  black  patches, 
one  under  the  right  eye,  the  other  on  the  left  shoulder. 
This  he  insisted  upon,  for  the  patch,  in  his  eyes,  was 
a  symbol  of  the  eighteenth  century. 

Pere  Issacar  was  a  fair  man  and  promised  to  furnish 
frames,  paper,  and  pastels,  and  to  pay  the  young 
girl  fifteen  francs  for  each  marquise.  What  was  better 
yet,  he  promised,  if  he  was  pleased  with  the  first 
work,  to  order  of  the  young  artist  a  dozen  canonesses 
of  Remiremont  and  a  half-dozen  of  royal  gendarmes. 

I  wish  you  could  have  seen  those  ladies  when  Maria 
went  home  to  tell  the  good  news.  Louise  had  just 
returned  from  distributing  semiquavers  in  the  city; 
her  eyes  and  poor  Mother  Gerard's  were  filled  with 
tears  of  joy. 

[105] 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

"What,  my  darling,"  said  the  mother,  embracing 
her  child,  "are  you  going  to  trouble  yourself  about 
our  necessaries  of  life,  too?" 

"Do  you  see  this  little  sister?"  said  Louise,  laugh- 
ing cordially.  "She  is  going  to  earn  a  pile  of  money 
as  large  as  she  is  herself.  Do  you  know  that  I  am 
jealous — I,  with  my  piano  and  my  displeasing  pro- 
fession? Good  luck  to  pastel!  It  is  not  noisy,  it  will 
not  annoy  the  neighbors,  and  when  you  are  old  you 
can  say,  'I  never  have  played  for  anybody.' ' 

But  Maria  did  not  wish  them  to  joke.  They  had 
always  treated  her  like  a  doll,  a  spoiled  child,  who 
only  knew  how  to  curl  her  hair  and  tumble  her  frocks. 
Well,  they  should  see! 

When  Amedee  arrived  on  Sunday  with  his  cake, 
they  told  him  over  several  times  the  whole  story,  with 
a  hundred  details,  and  showed  him  the  two  marquises 
that  Maria  had  already  finished,  who  wore  patches 
as  large  as  wafers. 

She  appeared  that  day  more  attractive  and  charm- 
ing than  ever  to  the  young  man,  and  it  was  then  that 
he  conceived  his  first  ambition.  If  he  only  had  enough 
talent  to  get  out  of  his  obscurity  and  poverty,  and 
could  become  a  famous  writer  and  easily  earn  his 
living!  It  was  not  impossible,  after  all.  Oh,  with 
what  pleasure  he  would  ask  this  exquisite  child  to  be 
his  wife!  How  sweet  it  would  be  to  know  that  she 
was  happy  with,  and  proud  of,  him !  But  he  must  not 
think  of  it  now,  they  were  too  poor;  and  then,  would 
Maria  love  him  ? 

He  often  asked  himself  that  question,  and  with 
[106] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

uneasiness.  In  his  own  heart  he  felt  that  the  childish 
intimacy  had  become  a  sincere  affection,  a  real  love. 
He  had  no  reason  to  hope  that  the  same  transforma- 
tion had  taken  place  in  the  young  girl's  heart.  She 
always  treated  him  very  affectionately,  but  rather  like 
a  good  comrade,  and  she  was  no  more  stirred  by  his 
presence  now  than  she  was  when  she  had  lain  in  wait 
with  him  behind  the  old  green  sofa  to  hunt  Father 
Gerard's  battered  fur  hat. 

Amedee  had  most  naturally  taken  the  Gerard  family 
into  his  confidence  regarding  his  work.  After  the 
Sunday  dinner  they  would  seat  themselves  around 
the  table  where  Mamma  Gerard  had  just  served  the 
coffee,  and  the  young  man  would  read  to  his  friends, 
in  a  grave,  slow  voice,  the  poem  he  had  composed 
during  the  week.  A  painter  having  the  taste  and 
inclination  for  interior  scenes,  like  the  old  masters  of 
the  Dutch  school,  would  have  been  stirred  by  the 
contemplation  of  this  group  of  four  persons  in  mourn- 
ing. The  poet,  with  his  manuscript  in  his  right  hand 
and  marking  the  syllables  with  a  rhythmical  move- 
ment of  his  left,  was  seated  between  the  two  sisters. 
But  while  Louise — a  little  too  thin  and  faded  for  her 
years — fixes  her  attentive  eyes  upon  the  reader  and 
listens  with  avidity,  the  pretty  Maria  is  listless  and 
sits  with  a  bored  little  face,  gazing  mechanically  at  the 
other  side  of  the  table.  Mother  Ge*rard  knits  with 
a  serious  air  and  her  spectacles  perched  upon  the  tip 
of  her  nose. 

Alas!  during  these  readings  Louise  was  the  only 
one  who  heaved  sighs  of  emotion;  and  sometimes 

[107] 


FRANCOIS 

even  great  tear-drops  would  tremble  upon  her  lashes. 
She  was  the  only  one  who  could  find  just  the  right 
delicate  word  with  which  to  congratulate  the  poet, 
and  show  that  she  had  understood  and  been  touched 
by  his  verses.  At  the  most  Maria  would  sometimes 
accord  the  young  poet,  still  agitated  by  the  declama- 
tion of  his  lines,  a  careless  "It  is  very  pretty!"  with  a 
commonplace  smile  of  thanks. 

She  did  not  care  for  poetry,  then?  Later,  if  he 
married  her,  would  she  remain  indifferent  to  her  hus- 
band's intellectual  life,  insensible  even  to  the  glory 
that  he  might  reap?  How  sad  it  was  for  Amedee  to 
have  to  ask  himself  that  question! 

Soon  Maria  inspired  a  new  fear  within  him.  Maurice 
and  his  mother  had  been  already  three  months  in 
Italy,  and  excepting  two  letters  that  he  had  received 
from  Milan,  at  the  beginning  of  his  journey,  in  the 
first  flush  of  his  enthusiasm,  Amedee  had  had  no 
news  from  his  friend.  He  excused  this  negligence  on 
the  part  of  the  lazy  Maurice,  who  had  smilingly  told 
him,  on  the  eve  of  departure,  not  to  count  upon  hear- 
ing from  him  regularly.  At  each  visit  that  Amedee 
paid  the  Gerards,  Maria  always  asked  him: 

"Have  you  received  any  news  from  your  friend 
Maurice?" 

At  first  he  had  paid  no  attention  to  this,  but  her 
persistency  at  length  astonished  him,  planting  a  little 
germ  of  suspicion  and  alarm  in  his  heart.  Maurice 
Roger  had  only  paid  the  Gerards  a  few  visits  during 
the  father's  lifetime,  and  accompanied  on  each  occasion 
by  Amede'e.  He  had  always  observed  the  most  re- 

[108] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

spectful  manner  toward  Maria,  and  they  had  perhaps 
exchanged  twenty  words.  Why  should  Maria  pre- 
serve such  a  particular  remembrance  of  a  person  so 
nearly  a  stranger  to  her?  Was  it  possible  that  he  had 
made  a  deep  impression,  perhaps  even  inspired  a  sen- 
timent of  love  ?  Did  she  conceal  in  the  depths  of  her 
heart,  when  she  thought  of  him,  a  tender  hope?  Was 
she  watching  for  him  ?  Did  she  wish  him  to  return  ? 

When  these  fears  crossed  Amedee's  mind,  he  felt 
a  choking  sensation,  and  his  heart  was  troubled. 
Happy  Maurice,  who  had  only  to  be  seen  to  please! 
But  immediately,  with  a  blush  of  shame,  the  generous 
poet  chased  away  this  jealous  fancy.  But  every  Sun- 
day, when  Maria,  lowering  her  eyes,  and  with  a 
slightly  embarrassed  voice,  repeated  her  question, 
"Have  you  received  any  news  from  Monsieur  Mau- 
rice?" Amedee  felt  a  cruelly  discouraged  feeling,  and 
thought,  with  deep  sadness: 

"She  never  will  love  me!" 

To  conquer  this  new  grief,  he  plunged  still  more 
deeply  into  work;  but  he  did  not  find  his  former  ani- 
mation and  energy.  After  the  drizzling  rain  of  the 
last  days  of  March,  the  spring  arrived.  Now,  when 
Ame'dee  awoke,  it  was  broad  daylight  at  six  o'clock 
in  the  morning.  Opening  his  mansard  window,  he 
admired,  above  the  tops  of  the  roofs,  the  large,  ruddy 
sun  rising  in  the  soft  gray  sky,  and  from  the  convent 
gardens  beneath  came  a  fresh  odor  of  grass  and  damp 
earth.  Under  the  shade  of  the  arched  lindens  which 
led  to  the  shrine  of  a  plaster  Virgin,  a  first  and  almost 
imperceptible  rustle,  a  presentiment  of  verdure,  so  to 

[109] 


FRANCOIS  COPPtiE 

speak,  ran  through  the  branches,  and  the  three  almond 
trees  in  the  kitchen-garden  put  forth  their  delicate 
flowers.  The  young  poet  was  invaded  by  a  sweet 
and  overwhelming  languor,  and  Maria's  face,  which 
was  commonly  before  his  inner  vision  upon  awaken- 
ing, became  confused  and  passed  from  his  mind.  He 
seated  himself  for  a  moment  before  a  table  and  re- 
read the  last  lines  of  a  page  that  he  had  begun;  but 
he  was  immediately  overcome  by  physical  lassitude, 
and  abandoned  himself  to  thought,  saying  to  himself 
that  he  was  twenty  years  old,  and  that  it  would  be 
very  good,  after  all,  to  enjoy  life. 


[no] 


CHAPTER  X 

A  BUDDING  POET 

T  is  the  first  of  May,  and  the  lilacs 
in  the  Luxembourg  Gardens  are  in 
blossom.  It  has  just  struck  four 
o'clock.  The  bright  sun  and  the 
pure  sky  have  rendered  more  odious 
than  ever  the  captivity  of  the  office 
to  Ame"dee,  and  he  departs  before 
the  end  of  the  sitting  for  a  stroll  in 
the  Medicis  garden  around  the  pond,  where,  for  the 
amusement  of  the  children  in  that  quarter,  a  little 
breeze  from  the  northeast  is  pushing  on  a  miniature 
flotilla.  Suddenly  he  hears  himself  called  by  a  voice 
which  bursts  out  like  a  brass  band  at  a  country  fair. 
"Good-day,  Violette." 

It  is  Jocquelet,  the  future  comedian,  with  his  turned- 
up  nose,  which  cuts  the  air  like  the  prow  of  a  first- 
class  ironclad,  superb,  triumphant,  dressed  like  a 
Brazilian,  shaved  to  the  quick,  the  dearest  hope  of 
Regnier's  class  at  the  Conservatoire — Jocquelet,  who 
has  made  an  enormous  success  in  an  act  from  the 
"  Precieuses, "  at  the  last  quarter's  examination — he 
says  so  himself,  without  any  useless  modesty — Jocque- 
let, who  will  certainly  have  the  first  comedy  prize  at 
the  next  examination,  and  will  make  his  debut  with- 

[iii] 


FRANCOIS  COPPfcE 

out  delay  at  the  Come'die  Franjaise!  All  this  he 
announces  in  one  breath,  like  a  speech  learned  by 
heart,  with  his  terrible  voice,  like  a  quack  selling  shav- 
ing-paste from  a  gilded  carriage.  In  two  minutes 
that  favorite  word  of  theatrical  people  had  been  re- 
peated thirty  times,  punctuating  the  phrases:  "I!  I! 
I!  I!" 

Amede'e  is  only  half  pleased  at  the  meeting.  Joc- 
quelet  was  always  a  little  too  noisy  to  please  him. 
After  all,  he  was  an  old  comrade,  and  out  of  politeness 
the  poet  congratulated  him  upon  his  success. 

Jocquelet  questioned  him.  What  was  Amedee  do- 
ing? What  had  become  of  him?  Where  was  his 
literary  work?  All  this  was  asked  with  such  cor- 
diality and  warmth  of  manner  that  one  would  have 
thought  that  Jocquelet  was  interested  in  Amedee,  and 
had  a  strong  friendship  for  him.  Nothing  of  the  sort. 
Jocquelet  was  interested  in  only  one  person  in  this 
world,  and  that  person  was  named  Jocquelet.  One 
is  either  an  actor  or  he  is  not.  This  personage  was 
always  one  wherever  he  was — in  an  omnibus,  while 
putting  on  his  suspenders,  even  with  the  one  he  loved. 
When  he  said  to  a  newcomer,  "How  do  you  do?"  he 
put  so  much  feeling  into  this  very  original  question, 
that  the  one  questioned  asked  himself  whether  he 
really  had  not  just  recovered  from  a  long  and  dan- 
gerous illness.  Now,  at  this  time  Jocquelet  found 
himself  in  the  presence  of  an  unknown  and  poor 
young  poet.  What  role  ought  such  an  eminent  person 
as  himself  to  play  in  such  circumstances?  To  show 
affection  for  the  young  man,  calm  his  timidity,  and 

[112] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

patronize  him  without  too  much  haughtiness;  that 
was  the  position  to  take,  and  Jocquelet  acted  it. 

Amedee  was  an  artless  dupe,  and,  touched  by  the 
interest  shown  him,  he  frankly  replied: 

"Well,  my  dear  friend,  I  have  worked  hard  this 
winter.  I  am  not  dissatisfied.  I  think  that  I  have 
made  some  progress;  but  if  you  knew  how  hard  and 
difficult  it  is!" 

He  was  about  to  confide  to  Jocquelet  the  doubts 
and  sufferings  of  a  sincere  artist,  but  Jocquelet,  as  we 
have  said,  thought  only  of  himself,  and  brusquely  in- 
terrupted the  young  poet: 

"You  do  not  happen  to  have  a  poem  with  you — 
something  short,  a  hundred  or  a  hundred  and  fifty 
lines — a  poem  intended  for  effect,  that  one  could  re- 
cite?" 

Amedee  had  copied  out  that  very  day,  at  the  office, 
a  war  story,  a  heroic  episode  of  Sebastopol  that  he 
had  heard  Colonel  Lantz  relate  not  long  since  at 
Madame  Roger's,  and  had  put  into  verse  with  a  good 
French  sentiment  and  quite  the  military  spirit,  verse 
which  savored  of  powder,  and  went  off  like  reports  of 
musketry.  He  took  the  sheets  out  of  his  pocket,  and, 
leading  the  comedian  into  a  solitary  by-path  of  syca- 
mores which  skirted  the  Luxembourg  orangery,  he 
read  his  poem  to  him  in  a  low  voice.  Jocquelet,  who 
did  not  lack  a  certain  literary  instinct,  was  very  en- 
thusiastic, for  he  foresaw  a  success  for  himself,  and 
said  to  the  poet: 

"You  read  those  verses  just  like  a  poet,  that  is, 
very  badly.  But  no  matter,  this  battle  is  very  effective, 
8  ["3] 


FRANCOIS 

and  I  see  what  I  could  do  with  it — with  my  voice. 
But  what  do  you  mean?"  added  he,  planting  himself 
in  front  of  his  friend.  "Do  you  write  verses  like 
these  and  nobody  knows  anything  about  them?  It 
is  absurd.  Do  you  wish,  then,  to  imitate  Chatterton? 
That  is  an  old  game,  entirely  used  up!  You  must 
push  yourself,  show  yourself.  I  will  take  charge  of 
that  myself!  Your  evening  is  free,  is  it  not?  Very 
well,  come  with  me;  before  six  o'clock  I  shall  have 
told  your  name  to  twenty  trumpeters,  who  will  make 
all  Paris  resound  with  the  news  that  there  is  a  poet 
in  the  Faubourg  Saint- Jacques.  I  will  wager,  you 
savage,  that  you  never  have  put  your  foot  into  the 
Cafe  de  Seville.  Why,  my  dear  fellow,  it  is  our  first 
manufactory  of  fame!  Here  is  the  Odeon  omnibus, 
get  on!  We  shall  be  at  the  Boulevard  Montmartre 
in  twenty  minutes,  and  I  shall  baptize  you  there,  as  a 
great  man,  with  a  glass  of  absinthe." 

Dazzled  and  carried  away,  Amedee  humored  him 
and  climbed  upon  the  outside  of  the  omnibus  with 
his  comrade.  The  vehicle  hurried  them  quickly  along 
toward  the  quay,  crossed  the  Seine,  the  Carrousel, 
and  passed  before  the  Theatre-Francais,  at  which 
Jocquelet,  thinking  of  his  approaching  debut,  shook 
his  fist,  exclaiming,  "Now  I  am  ready  for  you!"  Here 
the  young  men  were  planted  upon  the  asphalt  boule- 
vard, in  front  of  the  Cafe  de  Seville. 

Do  not  go  to-day  to  see  this  old  incubator,  in  which 
so  many  political  and  literary  celebrities  have  been 
hatched;  for  you  will  only  find  a  cafe*,  just  like  any 
other,  with  its  groups  of  ugly  little  Jews  who  discuss 

[114] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

the  coming  races,  and  here  and  there  a  poor  creature, 
painted  like  a  Jezebel,  dying  of  chagrin  over  her  pot 
of  beer. 

At  the  decline  of  the  Second  Empire — it  was  May  i, 
1866,  that  Amedee  Violette  entered  there  for  the  first 
time — the  Cafe  de  Seville  passed  for,  and  with  reason 
too,  one  of  the  most  remarkable  places  in  Paris.  For 
this  glorious  establishment  had  furnished  by  itself, 
or  nearly  so,  the  eminent  staff  of  our  third  Republic! 
Be  honest,  Monsieur  le  Prefet,  you  who  presided  at 
the  opening  of  the  agricultural  meeting  in  our  prov- 
ince, and  who  played  the  peacock  in  your  dress-coat, 
embroidered  in  silver,  before  an  imposing  line  of  horned 
creatures;  be  honest  and  admit,  that,  at  the  time  when 
you  opposed  the  official  candidates  in  your  democratic 
journal,  you  had  your  pipe  in  the  rack  of  the  Cafe  de 
Seville,  with  your  name  in  white  enamel  upon  the 
blackened  bowl!  Remember,  Monsieur  le  Depute, 
you  who  voted  against  all  the  exemption  cases  of  the 
military  law,  remember  who,  in  this  very  place,  at  your 
daily  game  of  dominoes  for  sixty  points,  more  than  a 
hundred  times  ranted  against  the  permanent  army— 
you,  accustomed  to  the  uproar  of  assemblies  and  the 
noise  of  the  tavern — contributed  to  the  parliamentary 
victories  by  crying,  "Six  all!  count  that!"  And  you 
too,  Monsieur  le  Ministre,  to  whom  an  office-boy,  dat- 
ing from  the  tyrants,  still  says,  "Your  excellency," 
without  offending  you;  you  also  have  been  a  constant 
frequenter  of  the  Caf£  de  Seville,  and  such  a  faithful 
customer  that  the  cashier  calls  you  by  your  Christian 
name.  And  do  you  recall,  Monsieur  the  future  presi- 


FRANCOIS  COPPtiE 

dent  of  the  Council,  that  you  did  not  acquit  yourself 
very  well  when  the  sedentary  dame,  who  never  has 
been  seen  to  rise  from  her  stool,  and  who,  as  a  joker 
pretended,  was  afflicted  with  two  wooden  legs,  called 
you  by  a  little  sign  to  the  desk,  and  said  to  you,  not 
without  a  shade  of  severity  in  her  tone:  "Monsieur 
Eugene,  we  must  be  thinking  of  this  little  bill." 

Notwithstanding  his  title  of  poet,  Amede'e  had  not 
the  gift  of  prophecy.  While  seeing  all  these  negli- 
gently dressed  men  seated  outside  at  the  Cafe  de  Se*- 
ville's  tables,  taking  appetizers,  the  young  man  never 
suspected  that  he  had  before  him  the  greater  part  of 
the  legislators  destined  to  assure,  some  years  later, 
France's  happiness.  Otherwise  he  would  have  re- 
spectfully taken  note  of  each  drinker  and  the  color  of 
his  drink,  since  at  a  later  period  this  would  have  been 
very  useful  to  him  as  a  mnemonical  method  for  the 
understanding  of  our  parliamentary  combinations, 
which  are  a  little  complicated,  we  must  admit.  For 
example,  would  it  not  have  been  handy  and  agreeable 
to  note  down  that  the  recent  law  on  sugars  had  been 
voted  by  the  solid  majority  of  absinthe  and  bitters, 
or  to  know  that  the  Cabinet's  fall,  day  before  yester- 
day, might  be  attributed  simply  to  the  disloyal  and 
perfidious  abandonment  of  the  bitter  mints  or  black- 
currant wine? 

Jocquelet,  who  professed  the  most  advanced  opinions 
in  politics,  distributed  several  riotous  and  patronizing 
hand-shakes  among  these  future  statesmen  as  he  en- 
tered the  establishment,  followed  by  Amede'e. 

Here,  there  were  still  more  of  politics,  and  also 
[116] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

poets  and  literary  men.  They  lived  a  sort  of  hurly- 
burly  life,  on  good  terms,  but  one  could  not  get  them 
confounded,  for  the  politicians  were  all  beard,  the 
litterateurs,  all  hair. 

Jocquelet  directed  his  steps  without  hesitation  to- 
ward the  magnificent  red  head  of  the  whimsical  poet, 
Paul  Sillery,  a  handsome  young  fellow  with  a  wide- 
awake face,  who  was  nonchalantly  stretched  upon  the 
red  velvet  cushion  of  the  window-seat,  before  a  table, 
around  which  were  three  other  heads  of  thick  hair 
worthy  of  our  early  kings. 

"My  dear  Paul,"  said  Jocquelet,  in  his  most  thrill- 
ing voice,  handing  Sillery  Amedee's  manuscript,  "here 
are  some  verses  that  I  think  are  superb,  and  I  am  go- 
ing to  recite  them  as  soon  as  I  can,  at  some  entertain- 
ment or  benefit.  Read  them  and  give  us  your  opinion 
of  them.  I  present  their  author  to  you,  Monsieur 
Amedee  Violette.  Amedee,  I  present  you  to  Monsieur 
Paul  Sillery." 

All  the  heads  of  hair,  framing  young  and  amiable 
faces,  turned  curiously  toward  the  newcomer,  whom 
Paul  Sillery  courteously  invited  to  be  seated,  with  the 
established  formula,  "What  will  you  take?"  Then  he 
began  to  read  the  lines  that  the  comedian  had  given 
him. 

Amedee,  seated  on  the  edge  of  his  chair,  was  dis- 
tracted with  timidity,  for  Paul  Sillery  already  enjoyed 
a  certain  reputation  as  a  rising  poet,  and  had  estab- 
lished a  small  literary  sheet  called  La  Guepe,  which 
published  upon  its  first  page  caricatures  of  celebrated 
men  with  large  heads  and  little  bodies,  and  Ame"de"e 

["7] 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

had  read  in  it  some  of  Paul's  poems,  full  of  imperti- 
nence and  charm.  An  author  whose  work  had  been 
published!  The  editor  of  a  journal!  The  idea  was 
stunning  to  poor  innocent  Violette,  who  was  not  aware 
then  that  La  Guepe  could  not  claim  forty  subscribers. 
He  considered  Sillery  something  wonderful,  and  waited 
with  a  beating  heart  for  the  verdict  of  so  formidable 
a  judge.  At  the  end  of  a  few  moments  Sillery  said, 
without  raising  his  eyes  from  the  manuscript: 

"Here  are  some  fine  verses!" 

A  flood  of  delight  filled  the  heart  of  the  poet  from 
the  Faubourg  St. -Jacques. 

As  soon  as  he  had  finished  his  reading,  Paul  arose 
from  his  seat,  and,  extending  both  hands  over  the 
carafes  and  glasses  to  Amede'e,  said,  enthusiastically: 

"Let  me  shake  hands  with  you!  Your  description 
of  the  battle-scene  is  astonishing!  It  is  admirable! 
It  is  as  clear  and  precise  as  Merimee,  and  it  has  all 
the  color  and  imagination  that  he  lacks  to  make  him 
a  poet.  It  is  something  absolutely  new.  My  dear 
Monsieur  Violette,  I  congratulate  you  with  all  my 
heart !  I  can  not  ask  you  for  this  beautiful  poem  for 
La  Guepe  that  Jocquelet  is  so  fortunate  as  to  have  to 
recite,  and  of  which  I  hope  he  will  make  a  success. 
But  I  beg  of  you,  as  a  great  favor,  to  let  me  have  some 
verses  for  my  paper;  they  will  be,  I  am  sure,  as  good 
as  these,  if  not  better.  To  be  sure,  I  forgot  to  tell 
you  that  we  shall  not  be  able  to  pay  you  for  the  copy, 
as  La  Gutpe  does  not  prosper;  I  will  even  admit  that 
it  only  stands  on  one  leg.  In  order  to  make  it  appear 
for  a  few  months  longer,  I  have  recently  been  obliged 

[118] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

to  go  to  a  money-lender,  who  has  left  me,  instead  of 
the  classical  stuffed  crocodile,  a  trained  horse  which 
he  had  just  taken  from  an  insolvent  circus.  I  mounted 
the  noble  animal  to  go  to  the  Bois,  but  at  the  Place  de 
la  Concorde  he  began  to  waltz  around  it,  and  I  was 
obliged  to  get  rid  of  this  dancing  quadruped  at  a  con- 
siderable loss.  So  your  contribution  to  La  Guepe 
would  have  to  be  gratuitous,  like  those  of  all  the  rest. 
You  will  give  me  the  credit  of  having  saluted  you  first 
of  all,  my  dear  Violette,  by  the  rare  and  glorious 
title  of  true  poet.  You  will  let  me  reserve  the  pleasure 
of  intoxicating  you  with  the  odor  that  a  printer's  first 
proofs  give,  will  you  not?  Is  it  agreed?" 

Yes,  it  was  agreed !  That  is  to  say,  Amedee,  touched 
to  the  depths  of  his  heart  by  so  much  good  grace  and 
fraternal  cordiality,  was  so  troubled  in  trying  to  find 
words  to  express  his  gratitude,  that  he  made  a  ter- 
rible botch  of  it. 

"Do  not  thank  me,"  said  Paul  Sillery,  with  his 
pleasant  but  rather  sceptical  smile,  "and  do  not  think 
me  better  than  I  am.  If  all  your  verses  are  as  strong 
as  these  that  I  have  just  read,  you  will  soon  publish 
a  volume  that  will  make  a  sensation,  and — who  knows? 
— perhaps  will  inspire  me  first  of  all  with  an  ugly 
attack  of  jealousy.  Poets  are  no  better  than  other 
people;  they  are  like  the  majority  of  Adam's  sons, 
vain  and  envious,  only  they  still  keep  the  ability  to 
admire,  and  the  gift  of  enthusiasm,  and  that  proves 
their  superiority  and  is  to  their  credit.  I  am  de- 
lighted to  have  found  a  mare's  nest  to-day,  an  original 
and  sincere  poet,  and  with  your  permission  we  will 

[119] 


FRANCOIS  COPPtfE 

celebrate  this  happy  meeting.  The  price  of  the  waltz- 
ing horse  having  hardly  sufficed  to  pay  off  the  debt  to 
the  publisher  of  La  Guepe,  I  am  not  in  funds  this 
evening;  but  I  have  credit  at  Pere  Lebuffle's,  and  I 
invite  you  all  to  dinner  at  his  pot-house;  after  which 
we  will  go  to  my  rooms,  where  I  expect  a  few  friends, 
and  there  you  will  read  us  your  verses,  Violette;  we 
will  all  read  some  of  them,  and  have  a  fine  orgy  of 
rich  rhymes." 

This  proposition  was  received  with  favor  by  the 
three  young  men  with  the  long  hair,  a  la  Clodion  and 
Chilperic.  As  for  Violette,  he  would  have  followed 
Paul  Sillery  at  that  moment,  had  it  been  into  the 
infernal  regions. 

Jocquelet  could  not  go  with  them,  he  had  promised 
his  evening  to  a  lady,  he  said,  and  he  gave  this  excuse 
with  such  a  conceited  smile  that  all  were  convinced 
he  was  going  to  crown  himself  with  the  most  flattering 
of  laurels  at  the  mansion  of  some  princess  of  the  royal 
blood.  In  reality,  he  was  going  to  see  one  of  his  Con- 
servatoire friends,  a  large,  lanky  dowdy,  as  swarthy 
as  a  mole  and  full  of  pretensions,  who  was  destined 
for  the  tragic  line  of  character,  and  inflicted  upon  her 
lover  Athalie's  dream,  Camille's  imprecations,  and 
Phedre's  monologue. 

After  paying  for  the  refreshments,  Sillery  gave  his 
arm  to  Ame"dee,  and,  followed  by  the  three  Mero- 
vingians, they  left  the  cafe.  Forcing  a  way  through 
the  crowd  which  obstructed  the  sidewalk  of  the  Fau- 
bourg Montmartre  he  conducted  his  guests  to  Pere 
Lebuffle's  table  d'hote,  which  was  situated  on  the  third 

[120] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

floor  of  a  dingy  old  house  in  the  Rue  Lamartine,  where 
a  sickening  odor  of  burnt  meat  greeted  them  as  soon  as 
they  reached  the  top  of  the  stairs.  They  found  there, 
seated  before  a  tablecloth  remarkable  for  the  num- 
ber of  its  wine-stains,  two  or  three  wild-looking  heads 
of  hair,  and  four  or  five  shaggy  beards,  to  whom  Pere 
LebufHe  was  serving  soup,  aided  by  a  tired-looking 
servant.  The  name  under  which  Sillery  had  desig- 
nated the  proprietor  of  the  table  d'hdte  might  have 
been  a  nickname,  for  this  stout  person  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves recommended  himself  to  one's  attentions  by 
his  bovine  face  and  his  gloomy,  wandering  eyes.  To 
Amedee's  amazement,  Pere  Lebuffle  called  the  greater 
part  of  his  clients  "thou,"  and  as  soon  as  the  new- 
comers were  seated  at  table,  Amedee  asked  Sillery, 
in  a  low  voice,  the  cause  of  this  familiarity. 

"It  is  caused  by  the  hard  times,  my  dear  Violette," 
responded  the  editor  of  La  Guepe  as  he  unfolded  his 
napkin.  "There  is  no  longer  a  'Maecenas'  or  'Law- 
rence the  Magnificent.'  The  last  patron  of  literature 
and  art  is  Pere  Lebuffle.  This  wretched  cook,  who 
has  perhaps  never  read  a  book  or  seen  a  picture,  has 
a  fancy  for  painters  and  poets,  and  allows  them  to 
cultivate  that  plant,  Debt,  which,  contrary  to  other 
vegetables,  grows  all  the  more,  the  less  it  is  watered 
with  instalments.  We  must  pardon  the  good  man," 
said  he,  lowering  his  voice,  "his  little  sin — a  sort  of 
vanity.  He  wishes  to  be  treated  like  a  comrade  and 
friend  by  the  artists.  Those  who  have  several  accounts 
brought  forward  upon  his  ledger,  arrive  at  the  point 
of  calling  him  'thou,'  and  I,  alas!  am  of  that  num- 

[121] 


FRANCOIS 

her.  Thanks  to  that,  I  am  going  to  make  you  drink 
something  a  little  less  purgative  than  the  so-called 
wine  which  is  turning  blue  in  that  carafe,  and  of  which 
I  advise  you  to  be  suspicious.  I  say,  Lebuffle,  my 
friend  here,  Monsieur  Amedee  Violette,  will  be,  sooner 
or  later,  a  celebrated  poet.  Treat  him  accordingly, 
my  good  fellow,  and  go  and  get  us  a  bottle  of  Moulin- 
a-Vent." 

The  conversation  meanwhile  became  general  be- 
tween the  bearded  and  long-haired  men.  Is  it  neces- 
sary to  say  that  they  were  all  animated,  both  politicians 
and  litterateurs,  with  the  most  revolutionary  senti- 
ments? At  the  very  beginning,  with  the  sardines, 
which  evidently  had  been  pickled  in  lamp-oil,  a  ter- 
ribly hairy  man,  the  darkest  of  them  all,  with  a  beard 
that  grew  up  into  its  owner's  eyes  and  then  sprung  out 
again  in  tufts  from  his  nose  and  ears,  presented  some 
elegiac  regrets  to  the  memory  of  Jean-Paul  Marat, 
and  declared  that  at  the  next  revolution  it  would  be 
necessary  to  realize  the  programme  of  that  delightful 
friend  of  the  people,  and  make  one  hundred  thousand 
heads  fall. 

"By  thunder,  Flambard,  you  have  a  heavy  hand!" 
exclaimed  one  of  the  least  important  of  beards,  one  of 
those  that  degenerate  into  side-whiskers  as  they  be- 
come conservative.  "One  hundred  thousand  heads!" 

"It  is  the  minimum,"  replied  the  sanguinary  beard. 

Now,  it  had  just  been  revealed  to  Ame'dee  that 
under  this  ferocious  beard  was  concealed  a  photog- 
rapher, well  known  for  his  failures,  and  the  young 
man  could  not  help  thinking  that  if  the  one  hundred 

[122] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

thousand  heads  in  question  had  posed  before  the  said 
Flambard's  camera,  he  would  not  show  such  impatience 
to  see  them  fall  under  the  guillotine. 

The  conversation  of  the  men  with  the  luxuriant 
hair  was  none  the  less  anarchical  when  the  roast  ap- 
peared, which  sprung  from  the  legendary  animal  called 
vache  enragee.  The  possessor  of  the  longest  and 
thickest  of  all  the  shock-heads,  which  spread  over  the 
shoulders  of  a  young  story-writer — between  us,  be  it 
said,  he  made  a  mistake  in  not  combing  it  oftener — 
imparted  to  his  brothers  the  subject  for  his  new  novel, 
which  should  have  made  the  hair  of  the  others  bristle 
with  terror;  for  the  principal  episode  in  this  agreeable 
fiction  was  the  desecration  of  a  dead  body  in  a  cem- 
etery by  moonlight.  There  was  a  sort  of  hesitation  in 
the  audience,  a  slight  movement  of  recoil,  and  Sillery, 
with  a  dash  of  raillery  in  his  glance,  asked  the  novelist : 
"Why  the  devil  do  you  write  such  a  story?" 
The  novelist  replied,  in  a  thundering  tone: 
"To  astonish  the  bourgeoisie  /" 
And  nobody  made  the  slightest  objection. 
To  "astonish  the  bourgeoisie"  was  the  clearest  hope 
and  most  ardent  wish  of  these  young  men,  and  this 
desire  betrayed  itself  in  their  slightest  word;  and 
doubtless  Ame*dee  thought  it  legitimate  and  even  wor- 
thy of  praise.  However,  he  did  not  believe — must  we 
admit  his  lack  of  confidence? — that  so  many  glorious 
efforts  were  ever  crowned  with  success.  He  went  so 
far  as  to  ask  himself  whether  the  character  and  clever- 
ness of  these  bourgeoisie  would  not  lead  them  to  ignore 
not  only  the  works,  but  even  the  existence,  of  the 

[123] 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

authors  who  sought  to  "astonish"  them;  and  he 
thought,  not  without  sadness,  that  when  La  Guepe 
should  have  published  this  young  novelist's  ghostly 
composition,  the  unconquerable  bourgeoisie  would 
know  nothing  about  it,  and  would  continue  to  devote 
itself  to  its  favorite  customs,  such  as  tapping  the  ba- 
rometer to  know  whether  there  was  a  change,  or  to 
heave  a  deep  sigh  after  guzzling  its  soup,  saying,  "I 
feel  better!"  without  being  the  least  astonished  in  the 
world. 

In  spite  of  these  mental  reservations,  which  Amedee 
reproached  himself  with,  being  himself  an  impure  and 
contemptible  Philistine,  the  poet  was  delighted  with 
his  new  friends  and  the  unknown  world  opening  be- 
fore him.  In  this  Bohemian  corner,  where  one  got 
intoxicated  with  wild  excesses  and  paradoxes,  reckless- 
ness and  gayety  reigned.  The  sovereign  charm  of 
youth  was  there,  and  Amede*e,  who  had  until  now 
lived  in  a  dark  hiding-place,  blossomed  out  in  this 
warm  atmosphere. 

After  a  horrible  dessert  of  cheese  and  prunes,  Pere 
Lebuffle's  guests  dispersed.  Sillery  escorted  Amede"e 
and  the  three  Merovingians  to  the  little,  sparsely  fur- 
nished first  floor  in  the  Rue  Pigalle,  where  he  lived; 
and  half  a  dozen  other  lyric  poets,  who  might  have 
furnished  some  magnificent  trophies  for  an  Apache 
warrior's  scalping-knife,  soon  came  to  reenforce  the 
club  which  met  there  every  Wednesday  evening. 

Seats  were  wanting  at  the  beginning,  but  Sillery 
drew  from  a  closet  an  old  black  trunk  which  would 
hold  two,  and  contented  himself,  as  master  of  the 

["4] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

house,  with  sitting  from  time  to  time,  with  legs  dan- 
gling, upon  the  marble  mantel.  The  company  thus 
found  themselves  very  comfortable;  still  more  so  when 
an  old  woman  with  a  dirty  cap  had  placed  upon  the 
table,  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  six  bottles  of  beer, 
some  odd  glasses,  and  a  large  flowered  plate  upon 
which  was  a  package  of  cut  tobacco  with  cigarette 
paper.  They  began  to  recite  their  verses  in  a  cloud 
of  smoke.  Each  recited  his  own,  called  upon  by  Sil- 
lery;  each  would  rise  without  being  urged,  place  his 
chair  in  front  of  him,  and  leaning  one  hand  upon  its 
back,  would  recite  his  poem  or  elegy.  Certainly  some 
of  them  were  wanting  in  genius,  some  were  even  lu- 
dicrous. Among  the  number  was  a  little  fellow  with 
a  cadaverous  face,  about  as  large  as  two  farthings' 
worth  of  butter,  who  declared,  in  a  long  speech  with 
flat  rhymes,  that  an  Asiatic  harem  was  not  capable  of 
quenching  his  ardent  love  of  pleasure.  A  fat-faced 
fellow  with  a  good,  healthy,  country  complexion,  an- 
nounced, in  a  long  story,  his  formal  intention  of  dying 
of  a  decline,  on  account  of  the  treason  of  a  courtesan 
with  a  face  as  cold  as  marble;  while,  if  the  facts  were 
known,  this  peaceable  boy  lived  with  an  artless  child 
of  the  people,  brightening  her  lot  by  reducing  her  to  a 
state  of  slavery;  she  blacked  his  boots  for  him  every 
morning  before  he  left  the  house. 

In  spite  of  these  ridiculous  things,  there  were  present 
some  genuine  poets  who  knew  their  business  and  had 
real  talent.  These  filled  Ame'de'e  with  respect  and 
fear,  and  when  Sillery  called  his  name,  he  arose  with 
a  dry  mouth  and  heavy  heart. 

[125] 


FRANCOIS  COPPfiE 

"It  is  your  turn  now,  you  newcomer!  Recite  us 
your  'Before  Sebastopol.'" 

And  so,  thoroughbred  that  he  was,  Ame'de'e  over- 
came his  emotion  and  recited,  in  a  thrilling  voice, 
his  military  rhymes,  that  rang  out  like  the  report  of 
a  veteran's  gun. 

The  last  stanza  was  greeted  with  loud  applause, 
and  all  the  auditors  arose  and  surrounded  Ame'dee  to 
offer  him  their  congratulations. 

"Why,  it  is  superb!" 

"Entirely  new!" 

"It  will  make  an  enormous  success!" 

"It  is  just  what  is  needed  to  arouse  the  public!" 

"Recite  us  something  else! — something  else!" 

Reassured  and  encouraged,  master  of  himself,  he 
recited  a  popular  scene  in  which  he  had  freely  poured 
out  his  love  for  the  poor  people.  He  next  recited  some 
of  his  Parisian  suburban  scenes,  and  then  a  series  of 
sonnets,  entitled  "Love's  Hopes,"  inspired  by  his 
dear  Maria;  and  he  astonished  all  these  poets  by  the 
versatility  and  variety  of  his  inspirations. 

At  each  new  poem  bravos  were  thundered  out,  and 
the  young  man's  heart  expanded  with  joy  under  this 
warm  sunshine  of  success.  His  audience  vied  with 
each  other  to  approach  Ame'de'e  first,  and  to  shake 
his  hand.  Alas!  some  of  those  who  were  there  would, 
later,  annoy  him  by  their  low  envy  and  treason;  but 
now,  in  the  generous  frankness  of  their  youth,  they 
welcomed  him  as  a  master. 

What  an  intoxicating  evening!  Ame'de'e  reached  his 
home  about  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  his  hands 

[126] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

burning  with  the  last  grasps,  his  brain  and  heart  in- 
toxicated with  the  strong  wine  of  praise.  He  walked 
with  long  and  joyful  strides  through  the  fairy  scene 
of  a  beautiful  moonlight,  in  the  fresh  morning  wind 
which  made  his  clothes  flutter  and  caressed  his  face. 
He  thought  he  even  felt  the  breath  of  fame. 


[127] 


CHAPTER  XI 

SUCCESS 

'UCCESS,  which  usually  is  as  fickle  as 
justice,  took  long  strides  and  doubled 
its  stations  in  order  to  reach  Amedee. 
The  Cafe  de  Seville,  and  the  coterie 
of  long-haired  writers,  were  busying 
themselves  with  the  rising  poet  al- 
ready. His  suite  of  sonnets,  pub- 
lished in  La  Gu£pe,  pleased  some  of 
the  journalists,  who  reproduced  them  in  portions  in 
well-distributed  journals.  Ten  days  after  Ame*dee's 
meeting  with  Jocquelet,  the  latter  recited  his  poem 
"Before  Sebastopol"  at  a  magnificent  entertainment 
given  at  the  Gaite  for  the  benefit  of  an  illustrious 
actor  who  had  become  blind  and  reduced  to  poverty. 

This  "dramatic  solemnity,"  to  use  the  language  of 
the  advertisement,  began  by  being  terribly  tiresome. 
There  was  an  audience  present  who  were  accustomed 
to  grand  Parisian  soirSes,  a  blase  and  satiated  public, 
who,  upon  this  warm  evening  in  the  suffocating  thea- 
tre, were  more  fatigued  and  satiated  than  ever.  The 
sleepy  journalists  collapsed  in  their  chairs,  and  in  the 
back  part  of  the  stage-boxes,  ladies'  faces,  almost 
green  under  paint,  showed  the  excessive  lassitude  of  a 

[128] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

long  winter  of  pleasure.  The  Parisians  had  all  come 
there  from  custom,  without  having  the  slightest  desire 
to  do  so,  just  as  they  always  came,  like  galley-slaves 
condemned  to  "first  nights."  They  were  so  lifeless 
that  they  did  not  even  feel  the  slightest  horror  at  see- 
ing one  another  grow  old.  This  chloroformed  audience 
was  afflicted  with  a  long  and  too  heavy  programme, 
as  is  the  custom  in  performances  of  this  kind.  They 
played  fragments  of  the  best  known  pieces,  and  sang 
songs  from  operas  long  since  fallen  into  disuse  even 
on  street  organs.  This  public  saw  the  same  com- 
edians march  out;  the  most  famous  are  the  most 
monotonous;  the  comical  ones  abused  their  privileges; 
the  lover  spoke  distractedly  through  his  nose;  the 
great  coquette — the  actress  par  excellence,  the  last  of 
the  Celimenes — discharged  her  part  in  such  a  sluggish 
way  that  when  she  began  an  adverb  ending  in  "ment," 
one  would  have  almost  had  time  to  go  out  and  smoke 
a  cigarette  or  drink  a  glass  of  beer  before  she  reached 
the  end  of  the  said  adverb. 

But  at  the  most  lethargic  moment  of  this  drowsy 
soirees,  after  the  comedians  from  the  Francais  had 
played  in  a  stately  manner  one  act  from  a  tragedy, 
Jocquelet  appeared.  Jocquelet,  still  a  pupil  at  the 
Conservatoire,  showed  himself  to  the  public  for  the 
first  time  and  by  an  exceptional  grace — Jocquelet, 
absolutely  unknown,  too  short  in  his  evening  clothes, 
in  spite  of  the  two  packs  of  cards  that  he  had  put  in 
his  boots.  He  appeared,  full  of  audacity,  riding  his 
high  horse,  raising  his  flat-nosed,  bull-dog  face  toward 
the  "gallery  gods,"  and,  in  his  voice  capable  of  mak- 
9  [I29] 


FRANCOIS  COPPfeE 

ing  Jericho's  wall  fall  or  raising  Jehoshaphat's  dead, 
he  dashed  off  in  one  effort,  but  with  intelligence  and 
heroic  feeling,  his  comrade's  poem. 

The  effect  was  prodigious.  This  bold,  common,  but 
powerful  actor,  and  these  picturesque  and  modern 
verses  were  something  entirely  new  to  this  public 
satiated  with  old  trash.  What  a  happy  surprise !  Two 
novelties  at  once!  To  think  of  discovering  an  un- 
heard-of poet  and  an  unknown  comedian!  To  nibble 
at  these  two  green  fruits!  Everybody  shook  off  his 
torpor;  the  anaesthetized  journalists  aroused  them- 
selves; the  colorless  and  sleepy  ladies  plucked  up  a 
little  animation;  and  when  Jocquelet  had  made  the 
last  rhyme  resound  like  a  grand  flourish  of  trumpets, 
all  applauded  enough  to  split  their  gloves. 

In  one  of  the  theatre  lobbies,  behind  a  bill-board 
pasted  over,  with  old  placards,  Ame*dee  Violette  heard 
with  delight  the  sound  of  the  applause  which  seemed 
like  a  shower  of  hailstones.  He  dared  not  think  of  it ! 
Was  it  really  his  poem  that  produced  so  much  excite- 
ment, which  had  thawed  this  cold  public?  Soon  he 
did  not  doubt  it,  for  Jocquelet,  who  had  just  been 
recalled  three  times,  threw  himself  into  the  poet's  arms 
and  glued  his  perspiring,  painted  face  to  his. 

"Well,  my  little  one,  I  have  done  it!"  he  exclaimed, 
bursting  with  gratification  and  vanity.  "You  heard 
how  I  caught  them!" 

Immediately  twenty,  thirty,  a  hundred  spectators 
appeared,  most  of  them  very  correct  in  white  cravats, 
but  all  eager  and  with  beaming  countenances,  asking 
to  see  the  author  and  the  interpreter,  and  to  be  pre- 

[130] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

sented  to  them,  that  they  might  congratulate  them 
with  an  enthusiastic  word  and  a  shake  of  the  hand. 
Yes!  it  was  a  success,  an  instantaneous  one.  It  was 
certainly  that  rare  tropical  flower  of  the  Parisian  green- 
house which  blossoms  out  so  seldom,  but  so  magnifi- 
cently. 

One  large,  very  common-looking  man,  wearing 
superb  diamond  shirt-buttons,  came  in  his  turn  to 
shake  Amedee's  hand,  and  in  a  hoarse,  husky  voice 
which  would  have  been  excellent  to  propose  tickets 
"cheaper  than  at  the  office!"  he  asked  for  the  manu- 
script of  the  poem  that  had  just  been  recited. 

"It  is  so  that  I  may  put  you  upon  the  first  page  of 
my  to-morrow's  edition,  young  man,  and  I  publish 
eighty  thousand.  Victor  Gaillard,  editor  of  Le  Tapage. 
Does  that  please  you?" 

He  took  the  manuscript  without  listening  to  the 
thanks  of  the  poet,  who  trembled  with  joy  at  the 
thought  that  his  work  had  caught  the  fancy  of  this 
Barnum  of  the  press,  the  foremost  advertiser  in  France 
and  Europe,  and  that  his  verses  would  meet  the  eyes 
of  two  hundred  thousand  readers. 

Yes,  it  was  certainly  a  success,  and  he  experienced 
the  first  bitterness  of  it  as  soon  as  he  arrived  the  next 
morning  at  the  Cafe"  de  Seville,  where  he  now  went 
every  two  or  three  days  at  the  hour  for  absinthe.  His 
verses  had  appeared  in  that  morning's  Tapage,  printed 
in  large  type  and  headed  by  a  few  lines  of  praise 
written  by  Victor  Gaillard,  a  la  Barnum.  As  soon  as 
Amedee  entered  the  cafe  he  saw  that  he  was  the  object 
of  general  attention,  and  the  lyric  gentlemen  greeted 

[131] 


FRANCOIS 

him  with  acclamations  and  bravos;  but  at  certain  ex- 
pressions of  countenance,  constrained  looks,  and  bit- 
ter smiles,  the  impressionable  young  man  felt  with  a 
sudden  sadness  that  they  already  envied  him. 

"I  warned  you  of  it,"  said  Paul  Sillery  to  him,  as 
he  led  him  into  a  corner  of  the  cafe.  "Our  good 
friends  are  not  pleased,  and  that  is  very  natural.  The 
greater  part  of  these  rhymers  are  'cheap  jewellers,' 
and  they  are  jealous  of  a  master  workman.  Above  all 
things,  pretend  not  to  notice  it;  they  will  never  forgive 
you  for  guessing  their  bad  sentiments.  And  then  you 
must  be  indulgent  to  them.  You  have  your  beautiful 
lieutenant's  epaulettes,  Violette,  do  not  be  too  hard 
upon  these  poor  privates.  They  also  are  fighting  under 
the  poetic  flag,  and  ours  is  a  poverty-stricken  regi- 
ment. Now  you  must  profit  by  your  good  luck. 
Here  you  are,  celebrated  in  forty-eight  hours.  Do  you 
see,  even  the  political  people  look  at  you  with  curios- 
ity, although  a  poet  in  the  estimation  of  these  austere 
persons  is  an  inferior  and  useless  being.  It  is  all  they 
will  do  to  accept  Victor  Hugo,  and  only  on  account 
of  his  '  Chatiments. '  You  are  the  lion  of  the  day. 
Lose  no  time.  I  met  just  now  upon  the  boulevard 
Massif,  the  publisher.  He  had  read  Le  Tapage  and 
expects  you.  Carry  him  all  your  poems  to-morrow; 
there  will  be  enough  to  make  a  volume.  Massif  will 
publish  it  at  his  own  expense,  and  you  will  appear 
before  the  public  in  one  month.  You  never  will  in- 
veigle a  second  time  that  big  booby  of  a  Gaillard,  who 
took  a  mere  passing  fancy  for  you.  But  no  matter! 
I  know  your  book,  and  it  will  be  a  success.  You  are 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

launched.  Forward,  march!  Truly,  I  am  better  than 
I  thought,  for  your  success  gives  me  pleasure." 

This  amiable  comrade's  words  easily  dissipated  the 
painful  feelings  that  Amedee  had  just  experienced. 
However,  it  was  one  of  those  exalted  moments  when 
one  will  not  admit  that  evil  exists.  He  spent  some 
time  with  the  poets,  forcing  himself  to  be  more  gracious 
and  friendly  than  ever,  and  left  them  persuaded — the 
unsuspecting  child! — that  he  had  disarmed  them  by 
his  modesty;  and  very  impatient  to  share  his  joy  with 
his  friends,  the  Gerards,  he  quickly  walked  the  length 
of  Montmartre  and  reached  them  just  at  their  dinner 
hour. 

They  did  not  expect  him,  and  only  had  for  their 
dinner  the  remains  of  the  boiled  beef  of  the  night 
before,  with  some  cucumbers.  Amedee  carried  his 
cake,  as  usual,  and,  what  was  better  still,  two  sauces 
that  always  make  the  poorest  meal  palatable — hope 
and  happiness. 

They  had  already  read  the  journals  and  knew  that 
the  poem  had  been  applauded  at  the  Gaite,  and  that 
it  had  at  once  been  printed  on  the  first  page  of  the 
journal;  and  they  were  all  so  pleased,  so  glad,  that 
they  kissed  Amedee  on  both  cheeks.  Mamma  Gerard 
remembered  that  she  had  a  few  bottles — five  or  six — 
of  old  chambertin  in  the  cellar,  and  you  could  not 
have  prevented  the  excellent  woman  from  taking  her 
key  and  taper  at  once,  and  going  for  those  old  bottles 
covered  with  cobwebs  and  dust,  that  they  might  drink 
to  the  health  of  the  triumphant  one.  As  to  Louise, 
she  was  radiant,  for  in  several  houses  where  she  gave 


FRANCOIS  COPPfeE 

lessons  she  had  heard  them  talk  of  the  fine  and  admir- 
able verses  published  in  Le  Tapage,  and  she  was  very 
proud  to  think  that  the  author  was  a  friend  of  hers. 
What  completed  Ame*dee's  pleasure  was  that  for  the 
first  time  Maria  seemed  to  be  interested  in  his  poem, 
and  said  several  times  to  him,  with  such  a  pretty,  vain 
little  air: 

"Do  you  know,  your  battle  is  very  nice.  Amede'e, 
you  are  going  to  become  a  great  poet,  a  celebrated 
man!  What  a  superb  future  you  have  before  you!" 

Ah!  what  exquisitely  sweet  hopes  he  carried  away 
that  evening  to  his  room  in  the  Faubourg  St.- Jacques! 
They  gave  him  beautiful  dreams,  and  pervaded  his 
thoughts  the  next  morning  when  the  concierge  brought 
him  two  letters. 

Still  more  happiness!  The  first  letter  contained  two 
notes  of  a  hundred  francs  each,  with  Victor  Gaillard's 
card,  who  congratulated  Amedee  anew  and  asked  him 
to  write  something  for  his  journal  in  the  way  of  prose; 
a  story,  or  anything  he  liked.  The  young  poet  gave 
a  cry  of  joyful  surprise  when  he  recognized  the  hand- 
writing of  Maurice  Roger  upon  the  other  envelope. 

"I  have  just  returned  to  Paris,  my  dear  Ame*dee," 
wrote  the  traveller,  "and  your  success  was  my  first 
greeting.  I  must  embrace  you  quickly  and  tell  you 
how  happy  I  am.  Come  to  see  me  at  four  o'clock  in 
my  den  in  the  Rue  Monsieur-le- Prince.  We  will  dine 
and  pass  the  evening  together." 

Ah!  how  the  poet  loved  life  that  morning,  how  good 
and  sweet  it  seemed  to  him !  Clothed  in  his  best,  he 
gayly  descended  the  Rue  St.- Jacques,  where  boxes 

[134] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

of  asparagus  and  strawberries  perfumed  the  fruit- 
stalls,  and  went  to  the  Boulevard  St.  Michel,  where 
he  purchased  an  elegant  gray  felt  hat  and  a  new  cravat. 
Then  he  went  to  the  Cafe  Voltaire,  where  he  lunched. 
He  changed  his  second  hundred-franc  bill,  so  that  he 
might  feel,  with  the  pleasure  of  a  child,  the  beautiful 
louis  d'or  which  he  owed  to  his  work  and  its  success. 
At  the  office  the  head  clerk — a  good  fellow,  who  sang 
well  at  dinners — complimented  Amedee  upon  his  poem. 
The  young  man  had  only  made  his  appearance  to  ask 
for  leave  that  afternoon,  so  as  to  take  his  manuscript 
to  the  publisher. 

Once  more  in  the  street  in  the  bright  May  sun,  after 
the  fashion  of  nabobs,  he  took  an  open  carriage  and 
was  carried  to  Massif,  in  the  Passage  des  Princes. 
The  editor  of  the  Jeunes  was  seated  in  his  office,  which 
was  decorated  with  etchings  and  beautiful  bindings. 
He  is  well  known  by  his  magnificent  black  beard  and 
his  large  bald  head,  upon  which  a  wicked  jester  once 
advised  him  to  paste  his  advertisements;  he  publishes 
the  works  of  audacious  authors  and  sensational  books, 
and  had  the  honor  of  sharing  with  Charles  Bazile,  the 
poet,  an  imprisonment  at  St.-Pelagie.  He  received 
this  thin-faced  rhymer  coldly.  Amedee  introduced 
himself,  and  at  once  there  was  a  broad  smile,  a  hand- 
shake, and  a  connoisseur's  greedy  sniffling.  Then 
Massif  opened  the  manuscript. 

"Let  us  see!  Ah,  yes,  with  margins  and  false  titles 
we  can  make  out  two  hundred  and  fifty  pages." 

The  business  was  settled  quickly.  A  sheet  of 
stamped  paper — an  agreement!  Massif  will  pay  all 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

the  expenses  of  the  first  edition  of  one  thousand,  and 
if  there  is  another  edition  —  and  of  course  there  will 
be ! — he  will  give  him  ten  cents  a  copy.  Amede'e  signs 
without  reading.  All  that  he  asks  is  that  the  volume 
should  be  published  without  delay. 

"Rest  easy,  my  dear  poet!  You  will  receive  the  first 
proofs  in  three  days,  and  in  one  month  it  will  appear." 

Was  it  possible  ?  Was  Ame'de'e  not  dreaming  ?  He, 
poor  Violette's  son,  the  little  office  clerk — his  book 
would  be  published,  and  in  a  month!  Readers  and 
unknown  friends  will  be  moved  by  his  agitation,  will 
suffer  in  his  suspense;  young  people  will  love  him  and 
find  an  echo  of  their  sentiments  in  his  verses;  women 
will  dreamily  repeat — with  one  finger  in  his  book- 
some  favorite  verse  that  touches  their  hearts!  Ah! 
he  must  have  a  confidant  in  his  joy,  he  must  tell  some 
true  friend. 

"Driver,  take  me  to  the  Rue  Monsieur-le-Prince. " 

He  mounted,  four  steps  at  a  time,  the  stairs  leading 
to  Maurice's  room.  The  key  is  in  the  door.  He 
enters  and  finds  the  traveller  there,  standing  in  the 
midst  of  the  disorder  of  open  trunks. 

"Maurice!" 

"Ame'de'e!" 

What  an  embrace!  How  long  they  stood  hand  in 
hand,  looking  at  each  other  with  happy  smiles! 

Maurice  is  more  attractive  and  gracious  than  ever. 
His  beauty  is  more  manly,  and  his  golden  moustache 
glistens  against  his  sun-browned  skin.  What  a  fine 
fellow!  How  he  rejoiced  at  his  friend's  first  success! 

"I  am  certain  that  your  book  will  turn  everybody's 
[136] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

head.  I  always  told  you  that  you  were  a  genuine 
poet.  We  shall  see!" 

As  to  himself,  he  was  happy  too.  His  mother  had 
let  him  off  from  studying  law  and  allowed  him  to  fol- 
low his  vocation.  He  was  going  to  have  a  studio  and 
paint.  It  had  all  been  decided  in  Italy,  where  Madame 
Roger  had  witnessed  her  son's  enthusiasm  over  the 
great  masters.  Ah,  Italy!  Italy!  and  he  began  to  tell 
of  his  trip,  show  knickknacks  and  souvenirs  of  all 
kinds  that  littered  the  room.  He  turned  in  his  hands, 
that  he  might  show  all  its  outlines,  a  little  terra-cotta 
reduction  of  the  Antinous  in  the  Museum  of  Naples. 
He  opened  a  box,  full  to  bursting,  of  large  photo- 
graphs, and  passed  them  to  his  friend  with  exclama- 
tions of  retrospective  admiration. 

"Look!  the  Coliseum!  the  ruins  of  Pcestum — and 
this  antique  from  the  Vatican!  Is  it  not  beautiful?" 

While  looking  at  the  pictures  he  recalled  the  things 
that  he  had  seen  and  the  impressions  he  had  experi- 
enced. There  was  a  band  of  collegians  in  little  capes 
and  short  trousers  taking  their  walk ;  they  wore  buckled 
shoes,  like  the  abbes  of  olden  times,  and  nothing  could 
be  more  droll  than  to  see  these  childish  priests  play 
leapfrog.  There,  upon  the  Riva  dei  Schiavoni,  he  had 
followed  a  Venetian.  "Shabbily  dressed,  and  fancy, 
my  friend,  bare-headed,  in  a  yellow  shawl  with  ragged 
green  fringe!  No,  I  do  not  know  whether  she  was 
pretty,  but  she  possessed  in  her  person  all  the  attrac- 
tions of  Giorgione's  goddesses  and  Titian's  courtesans 
combined!" 

Maurice  is  still  the  same  wicked  fellow.  But,  bah! 
[i37] 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

it  suits  him;  he  even  boasts  of  it  with  such  a  joyous 
ardor  and  such  a  youthful  dash,  that  it  is  only  one 
charm  the  more  in  him.  The  clock  struck  seven, 
and  they  went  to  dine.  They  started  off  through  the 
Latin  Quarter.  Maurice  gave  his  arm  to  Amedee  and 
told  him  of  his  adventures  on  the  other  side  of  the 
Alps.  Maurice,  once  started  on  this  subject,  could 
not  stop,  and  while  the  dinner  was  being  served  the 
traveller  continued  to  describe  his  escapades.  This 
kind  of  conversation  was  dangerous  for  Amedee;  for 
it  must  not  be  forgotten  that  for  some  time  the  young 
poet's  innocence  had  weighed  upon  him,  and  this  eve- 
ning he  had  some  pieces  of  gold  in  his  pocket  that  rang 
a  chime  of  pleasure.  While  Maurice,  with  his  elbow 
upon  the  table,  told  him  his  tales  of  love,  Amedee 
gazed  out  upon  the  sidewalk  at  the  women  who  passed 
by  in  fresh  toilettes,  in  the  gaslight  which  illuminated 
the  green  foliage,  giving  a  little  nod  of  the  head  to 
those  whom  they  knew.  There  was  voluptuousness  in 
the  very  air,  and  it  was  Amedee  who  arose  from  the 
table  and  recalled  to  Maurice  that  it  was  Thursday, 
and  that  there  was  a  jete  that  night  at  Bullier's;  and 
he  also  was  the  one  to  add,  with  a  deliberate  air: 

"Shall  we  take  a  turn  there?" 

"Willingly,"  replied  his  gay  friend.  "Ah,  ha!  we 
are  then  beginning  to  enjoy  ourselves  a  little,  Mon- 
sieur Violette!  Go  to  Bullier's?  so  be  it.  I  am  not 
sorry  to  assure  myself  whether  or  not  I  still  love  the 
Parisians." 

They  started  off,  smoking  their  cigarettes.  Upon 
the  highway,  going  in  the  same  direction  as  them- 

[138] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

selves,  were  victorias  carrying  women  in  spring  cos- 
tumes and  wearing  bonnets  decked  with  flowers.  From 
time  to  time  the  friends  were  elbowed  by  students 
shouting  popular  refrains  and  walking  in  Indian  file. 

Here  is  Bullier's!  They  step  into  the  blazing  en- 
trance, and  go  thence  to  the  stairway  which  leads  to 
the  celebrated  public  ballroom.  They  are  stifled  by 
the  odor  of  dust,  escaping  gas,  and  human  flesh. 
Alas!  there  are  in  every  village  in  France  doctors  in 
hansom  cabs,  country  lawyers,  and  any  quantity  of 
justices  of  the  peace,  who,  I  can  assure  you,  regret 
this  stench  as  they  take  the  fresh  air  in  the  open 
country  under  the  starry  heavens,  breathing  the  ex- 
quisite perfume  of  new-mown  hay;  for  it  is  mingled 
with  the  little  poetry  that  they  have  had  in  their  lives, 
with  their  student's  love-affairs,  and  their  youth. 

All  the  same,  this  Bullier's  is  a  low  place,  a  carica- 
ture of  the  Alhambra  in  pasteboard.  Three  or  four 
thousand  moving  heads  in  a  cloud  of  tobacco-smoke, 
and  an  exasperating  orchestra  playing  a  quadrille  in 
which  dancers  twist  and  turn,  tossing  their  legs  with 
calm  faces  and  audacious  gestures. 

"What  a  mob!"  said  Amedee,  already  a  trifle  dis- 
gusted. "Let  us  go  into  the  garden." 

They  were  blinded  by  the  gas  there;  the  thickets 
looked  so  much  like  old  scenery  that  one  almost  ex- 
pected to  see  the  yellow  breastplates  of  comic-opera 
dragoons;  and  the  jet  of  water  recalled  one  of  those 
little  spurts  of  a  shooting-gallery  upon  which  an  empty 
egg-shell  dances.  But  they  could  breathe  there  a  little. 

"Boy!  two  sodas,"  said  Maurice,  striking  the  table 


FRANCOIS  COPPEE 

with  his  cane;  and  the  two  friends  sat  down  near  the 
edge  of  a  walk  where  the  crowd  passed  and  repassed. 
They  had  been  there  about  ten  minutes  when  two 
women  stopped  before  them. 

"Good-day,  Maurice,"  said  the  taller,  a  brunette 
with  rich  coloring,  the  genuine  type  of  a  tavern  girl. 

' '  What ,  Margot ! ' '  exclaimed  the  young  man .  ' '  Will 
you  take  something?  Sit  down  a  moment,  and  your 
friend  too.  Do  you  know,  your  friend  is  charming? 
What  is  her  name?" 

"Rosine,"  replied  the  stranger,  modestly,  for  she 
was  only  about  eighteen,  and,  in  spite  of  the  blond 
frizzles  over  her  eyes,  she  was  not  yet  bold,  poor  child! 
She  was  making  her  debut,  it  was  easy  to  see. 

"Well,  Mademoiselle  Rosine,  come  here,  that  I 
may  see  you,"  continued  Maurice,  seating  the  young 
girl  beside  him  with  a  caressing  gesture.  "You,  Mar- 
got,  I  authorize  to  be  unfaithful  to  me  once  more  in 
favor  of  my  friend  Amedee.  He  is  suffering  with  love- 
sickness,  and  has  a  heart  to  let.  Although  he  is  a 
poet,  I  think  he  happens  to  have  in  his  pocket  enough 
to  pay  for  a  supper." 

Everywhere  and  always  the  same,  the  egotistical 
and  amiable  Maurice  takes  the  lion's  share,  and  Ame- 
dee, listening  only  with  one  ear  to  the  large  Margot, 
who  is  already  begging  him  to  make  an  acrostic  for 
her,  thinks  Rosine  is  charming,  while  Maurice  says 
a  thousand  foolish  things  to  her.  In  spite  of  himself, 
the  poet  looks  upon  Maurice  as  his  superior,  and 
thinks  it  perfectly  natural  that  he  should  claim  the 
prettier  of  the  two  women.  No  matter!  Amedee 

[140] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

wanted  to  enjoy  himself  too.  This  Margot,  who  had 
just  taken  off  her  gloves  to  drink  her  wine,  had  large, 
red  hands,  and  seemed  as  silly  as  a  goose,  but  all  the 
same  she  was  a  beautiful  creature,  and  the  poet  began 
to  talk  to  her,  while  she  laughed  and  looked  at  him 
with  a  wanton's  eyes.  Meanwhile  the  orchestra  burst 
into  a  polka,  and  Maurice,  in  raising  his  voice  to  speak 
to  his  friend,  called  him  several  times  Amedee,  and 
once  only  by  his  family  name,  Violette.  Suddenly 
little  Rosine  started  up  and  looked  at  the  poet,  saying 
with  astonishment: 

"What!    Is  your  name  Amede"e  Violette?" 

"Certainly." 

"Then  you  are  the  boy  with  whom  I  played  so 
much  when  I  was  a  child." 

"With  me?" 

"Yes!  Do  you  not  remember  Rosine,  little  Rosine 
Combarieu,  at  Madame  Gerard's,  the  engraver's  wife, 
in  the  Rue  Notre-Dame-des-Champs  ?  We  played 
games  with  his  little  girls.  How  odd  it  is,  the  way 
one  meets  old  friends!" 

What  is  it  that  Amedee  feels?  His  entire  childhood 
rises  before  him.  The  bitterness  of  the  thought  that 
he  had  known  this  poor  girl  in  her  innocence  and 
youth,  and  the  Gerards'  name  spoken  in  such  a  place, 
filled  the  young  man's  heart  with  a  singular  sadness. 
He  could  only  say  to  Rosine,  in  a  voice  that  trembled 
a  little  with  pity: 

"You!    Is  it  you?" 

Then  she  became  red  and  very  embarrassed,  lower- 
ing her  eyes. 


FRANCOIS  COPPEE 

Maurice  had  tact;  he  noticed  that  Rosine  and  Ame*- 
de"e  were  agitated,  and,  feeling  that  he  was  de  trop, 
he  arose  suddenly  and  said: 

"Now  then,  Margot.  Come  on!  these  children 
want  to  talk  over  their  childhood,  I  think.  Give  up 
your  acrostic,  my  child.  Take  my  arm,  and  come  and 
have  a  turn." 

When  they  were  alone  Amedee  gazed  at  Rosine 
sadly.  She  was  pretty,  in  spite  of  her  colorless  com- 
plexion, a  child  of  the  faubourg,  born  with  a  genius 
for  dress,  who  could  clothe  herself  on  nothing — a  linen 
gown,  a  flower  in  her  hat.  One  who  lived  on  salads 
and  vegetables,  so  as  to  buy  well-made  shoes  and 
eighteen-button  gloves. 

The  pretty  blonde  looked  at  Amedee,  and  a  timid 
smile  shone  in  her  nut-brown  eyes. 

"Now,  Monsieur  Amedee,"  said  she,  at  last,  "it 
need  not  trouble  you  to  meet  at  Bullier's  the  child 
whom  you  once  played  with.  What  would  have  been 
astonishing  would  be  to  find  that  I  had  become  a  fine 
lady.  I  am  not  wise,  it  is  true,  but  I  work,  and  you 
need  not  fear  that  I  go  with  the  first  comer.  Your 
friend  is  a  handsome  fellow,  and  very  amiable,  and  I 
accepted  his  attentions  because  he  knew  Margot,  while 
with  you  it  is  very  different.  It  gives  me  pleasure  to 
talk  with  you.  It  recalls  Mamma  Gerard,  who  was 
so  kind  to  me.  What  has  become  of  her,  tell  me? 
and  her  husband  and  her  daughters?" 

"Monsieur  Gerard  is  dead,"  replied  Amedee;  "but 
the  ladies  are  well,  and  I  see  them  often." 

"Do  not  tell  them  that  you  met  me  here,  will  you? 
[142] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

It  is  better  not.  If  I  had  had  a  good  mother,  like 
those  girls,  things  would  have  turned  out  differently 
for  me.  But,  you  remember,  papa  was  always  in- 
terested in  his  politics.  When  I  was  fifteen  years  old 
he  apprenticed  me  to  a  florist.  He  was  a  fine  master, 
a  perfect  monster  of  a  man,  who  ruined  me!  I  say, 
Pere  Combarieu  has  a  droll  trade  now;  he  is  manager 
of  a  Republican  journal — nothing  to  do — only  a  few 
months  in  prison  now  and  then.  I  am  always  work- 
ing in  flowers,  and  I  have  a  little  friend,  a  pupil  at 
Val-de-Grace,  but  he  has  just  left  as  a  medical  officer 
for  Algeria.  I  was  lonely  all  by  myself,  and  this 
evening  big  Margot,  whom  I  got  acquainted  with  in 
the  shop,  brought  me  here  to  amuse  myself.  But  you 
—what  are  you  doing?  Your  friend  said  just  now 
that  you  were  a  poet.  Do  you  write  songs  ?  I  always 
liked  them.  Do  you  remember  when  I  used  to  play 
airs  with  one  finger  upon  the  Guards'  old  piano? 
You  were  such  a  pretty  little  boy  then,  and  as  gentle 
as  a  girl.  You  still  have  your  nice  blue  eyes,  but  they 
are  a  little  darker.  I  remember  them.  No,  you  can 
not  know  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you  again!" 

They  continued  to  chatter,  bringing  up  old  remi- 
niscences, and  when  she  spoke  of  the  Gerard  ladies 
she  put  on  a  respectful  little  air  which  pleased  Amedee 
very  much.  She  was  a  poor  feather-headed  little 
thing,  he  did  not  doubt;  but  she  had  kept  at  least 
the  poor  man's  treasure,  a  simple  heart.  The  young 
man  was  pleased  with  her  prattling,  and  as  he  looked 
at  the  young  girl  he  thought  of  the  past  and  felt  a  sort 
of  compassion  for  her.  As  she  was  silent  for  a  mo- 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

ment,  the  poet  said  to  her,  "Do  you  know  that  you 
have  become  very  pretty?  What  a  charming  com- 
plexion you  have!  such  a  lovely  pallor!" 

The  grisette,  who  had  known  what  poverty  was, 
gave  a  bitter  little  laugh: 

"Oh,  my  pallor!  that  is  nothing!  It  is  not  the 
pallor  of  wealth." 

Then,  recovering  her  good-humor  at  once,  she  con- 
tinued : 

"Tell  me,  Monsieur  Amedee,  does  this  big  Margot, 
whom  you  began  to  pay  attentions  to  a  little  while 
ago,  please  you?" 

Amedee  quickly  denied  it.  "That  immense  crea- 
ture? Never!  Now  then,  Rosine,  I  came  here  to 
amuse  myself  a  little,  I  will  admit.  That  is  not  for- 
bidden at  my  age,  is  it?  But  this  ball  disgusts  me. 
You  have  no  appointment  here?  No?  Is  it  truly 
no?  Very  well,  take  my  arm  and  let  us  go.  Do  you 
live  far  from  here?" 

"In  the  Avenue  d'Orleans,  near  the  Montrouge 
church." 

"Will  you  allow  me  to  escort  you  home,  then?" 

She  would  be  happy  to,  and  they  arose  and  left  the 
ball.  It  seemed  to  the  young  poet  as  if  the  pretty 
girl's  arm  trembled  a  little  in  his;  but  once  upon  the 
boulevard,  flooded  by  the  light  from  the  silvery  moon, 
Rosine  slackened  her  steps  and  became  pensive,  and 
her  eyes  were  lowered  when  Amede"e  sought  a  glance 
from  them  in  the  obscurity.  How  sweet  was  this  new 
desire  that  troubled  the  young  man's  heart!  It  was 
mixed  with  a  little  sentiment;  his  heart  beat  with 

[i44] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

emotion,  and  Rosine  was  not  Aess  moved.  They  could 
both  find  only  insignificant  things  to  say. 

"What  a  beautiful  night!" 

"Yes!    It  does  one  good  to  breathe  the  fresh  air." 

They  continued  their  walk  without  speaking.  Oh, 
how  fresh  and  sweet  it  was  under  these  trees! 

At  last  they  reached  the  door  of  Rosine's  dwelling. 
With  a  slow  movement  she  pressed  her  hand  upon  the 
bell-button.  Then  Amedee,  with  a  great  effort,  and 
in  a  confused,  husky  voice,  asked  whether  he  might 
go  up  with  her  and  see  her  little  room. 

She  looked  at  him  steadily,  with  a  tender  sadness  in 
her  eyes,  and  then  said  to  him,  softly: 

"No,  certainly  not!  One  must  be  sensible.  I 
please  you  this  evening,  and  you  know  very  well  that 
I  think  you  are  charming.  It  is  true  we  knew  each 
other  when  we  were  young,  and  now  that  we  have 
met  again,  it  seems  as  if  it  would  be  pleasant  to  love 
each  other.  But,  believe  me,  we  should  commit  a 
great  folly,  perhaps  a  wrong.  It  is  better,  I  assure 
you,  to  forget  that  you  ever  met  me  at  Bullier's  with 
big  Margot,  and  only  remember  your  little  playmate 
of  the  Rue  Notre-Dame-des-Champs.  It  will  be  bet- 
ter than  a  caprice,  it  will  be  something  pure  that  you 
can  keep  in  your  heart.  Do  not  let  us  spoil  the  re- 
membrance of  our  childhood,  Monsieur  Amede"e,  and 
let  us  part  good  friends." 

Before  the  young  man  could  find  a  reply,  the  bell 

pealed  again,  and  Rosine  gave  Amedee  a  parting  smile, 

lightly  kissing  the  tips  of  her  fingers,  and  disappeared 

behind   the   door,   which   fell   together   with   a   loud 

10  [  H5  ] 


FRANCOIS  COPPtiE 

bang.  The  poet's  first  movements  was  one  of  rage. 
Giddy  weather-cock  of  a  woman!  But  he  had  hardly 
taken  twenty  steps  upon  the  sidewalk  before  he  said 
to  himself,  with  a  feeling  of  remorse,  "She  was  right!" 
He  thought  that  this  poor  girl  had  kept  in  one  corner 
of  her  heart  a  shadow  of  reserve  and  modesty,  and 
he  was  happy  to  feel  rise  within  him  a  sacred  respect 
for  woman! 

Amedee,  my  good  fellow,  you  are  quite  worthless 
as  a  man  of  pleasure.    You  had  better  give  it  up! 


[146] 


CHAPTER  XII 

SOCIAL  TRIUMPHS 

OR  one  month  now  Amede'e  Violette's 
volume  of  verses,  entitled  Poems  from 
Nature,  had  embellished  with  its 
pale-blue  covers  the  shelves  of  the 
book-shops.  The  commotion  raised 
by  the  book's  success,  and  the  fa- 
vorable criticisms  given  by  the  jour- 
nals, had  not  yet  calmed  down  at 
the  Caf6  de  Seville. 

This  emotion,  let  it  be  understood,  did  not  exist 
except  among  the  literary  men.  The  politicians  dis- 
dained poets  and  poetry,  and  did  not  trouble  them- 
selves over  such  commonplace  matters.  They  had 
affairs  of  a  great  deal  more  importance  to  determine — 
the  overthrow  of  the  government  first,  then  to  remodel 
the  map  of  Europe!  What  was  necessary  to  over- 
throw the  Empire?  First,  conspiracy;  second,  barri- 
cades. Nothing  was  easier  than  to  conspire.  Every- 
body conspired  at  the  Seville.  It  is  the  character  of 
the  French,  who  are  born  cunning,  but  are  light  and 
talkative,  to  conspire  in  public  places.  As  soon  as  one 
of  our  compatriots  joins  a  secret  society  his  first  care 
is  to  go  to  his  favorite  restaurant  and  to  confide,  under 
a  bond  of  the  most  absolute  secrecy,  to  his  most  inti- 

[i47] 


FRANCOIS  COPPftE 

mate  friend,  what  he  has  known  for  about  five  minutes, 
the  aim  of  the  conspiracy,  names  of  the  actors,  the  day, 
hour,  and  place  of  the  rendezvous,  the  passwords  and 
countersigns.  A  little  while  after  he  has  thus  relieved 
himself,  he  is  surprised  that  the  police  interfere  and 
spoil  an  enterprise  that  has  been  prepared  with  so 
much  mystery  and  discretion.  It  was  in  this  way  that 
the  "beards"  dealt  in  dark  deeds  of  conspiracy  at  the 
Cafe  de  Seville.  At  the  hour  for  absinthe  and  maza- 
gran  a  certain  number  of  Fiesques  and  Catilines  were 
grouped  around  each  table.  At  one  of  the  tables  in 
the  foreground  five  old  "beards,"  whitened  by  political 
crime,  were  planning  an  infernal  machine;  and  in  the 
back  of  the  room  ten  robust  hands  had  sworn  upon  the 
billiard-table  to  arm  themselves  for  regicide;  only,  as 
with  all  "beards,"  there  were  necessarily  some  false 
ones  among  them,  that  is  to  say,  spies.  All  the  plots 
planned  at  the  Seville  had  miserably  miscarried. 

The  art  of  building  barricades  was  also — you  never 
would  suspect  it! — very  ardently  and  conscientiously 
studied.  This  special  branch  of  the  science  of  fortifi- 
cation reckoned  more  than  one  Vauban  and  Gribeau- 
val  among  its  numbers.  "Professor  of  barricading," 
was  a  title  honored  at  the  Cafe  de  Seville,  and  one  that 
they  would  willingly  have  had  engraved  upon  their 
visiting-cards.  Observe  that  the  instruction  was  only 
theoretical ;  doubtless  out  of  respect  for  the  policemen, 
they  could  not  give  entirely  practical  lessons  to  the 
future  rioters  who  formed  the  ground-work  of  the 
business.  The  master  or  doctor  of  civil  war  could  not 
go  out  with  them,  for  instance,  and  practise  in  the  Rue 

[148] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

Drouot.  But  he  had  one  resource,  one  way  of  getting 
out  of  it;  namely,  dominoes.  No!  you  never  would 
believe  what  a  revolutionary  appearance  these  inoffen- 
sive mutton-bones  took  on  under  the  seditious  hands 
of  the  habitues  of  the  Cafe  de  Seville.  These  minia- 
ture pavements  simulated  upon  the  marble  table  the 
subjugation  of  the  most  complicated  of  barricades, 
with  all  sorts  of  bastions,  redans,  and  counterscarps. 
It  was  something  after  the  fashion  of  the  small  models 
of  war-ships  that  one  sees  in  marine  museums.  Any 
one,  not  in  the  secret,  would  have  supposed  that  the 
"beards"  simply  played  dominoes.  Not  at  all!  They 
were  pursuing  a  course  of  technical  insurrection.  When 
they  roared  at  the  top  of  their  lungs  "Five  on  all  sides!" 
certain  players  seemed  to  order  a  general  discharge, 
and  they  had  a  way  of  saying,  "I  can  not!"  which  evi- 
dently expressed  the  despair  of  a  combatant  who  has 
burned  his  last  cartridge.  A  "beard"  in  glasses  and  a 
stovepipe  hat,  who  had  been  refused  in  his  youth  at  the 
Ecole  Poly  technique,  was  frightful  in  the  rapidity  and 
mathematical  precision  with  which  he  added  up  in 
three  minutes  his  barricade  of  dominoes.  When  this 
man  "blocked  the  six,"  you  were  transported  in  im- 
agination to  the  Rue  Transnonain,  or  to  the  Cloitre 
St.  Merry.  It  was  terrible! 

As  to  foreign  politics,  or  the  remodelling  of  the  map 
of  Europe,  it  was,  properly  speaking,  only  sport  and 
recreation  to  the  "beards."  It  added  interest  to  the 
game,  that  was  all.  Is  it  not  agreeable,  when  you  are 
preparing  a  discard,  at  the  decisive  moment,  with  one 
hundred  at  piquet,  which  gives  you  quinte  or  quatorze, 

[i49] 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

to  deliver  unhappy  Poland;  and  when  one  has  the 
satisfaction  to  score  a  king  and  take  every  trick,  what 
does  it  cost  to  let  the  Russians  enter  Constantinople? 

Nevertheless,  some  of  the  most  solemn  "beards"  of 
the  Cafe  de  Seville  attached  themselves  to  interna- 
tional questions,  to  the  great  problem  of  European 
equilibrium.  One  of  the  most  profound  of  these  dip- 
lomats— who  probably  had  nothing  to  buy  suspenders 
with,  for  his  shirt  always  hung  out  between  his  waist- 
coat and  trousers — was  persuaded  that  an  indemnity 
of  two  million  francs  would  suffice  to  obtain  from  the 
Pope  the  transfer  of  Rome  to  the  Italians ;  and  another 
Metternich  on  a  small  scale  assumed  for  his  specialty 
the  business  of  offering  a  serious  affront  to  England 
and  threatening  her,  if  she  did  not  listen  to  his  advice, 
with  a  loss  in  a  short  time  of  her  Indian  Empire  and 
other  colonial  possessions. 

Thus  the  "beards,"  absorbed  by  such  grave  specu- 
lations, did  not  trouble  themselves  about  the  vanity 
called  literature,  and  did  not  care  a  pin  for  Amedee 
Violette's  book.  Among  the  long-haired  ones,  how- 
ever, we  repeat,  the  emotion  was  great.  They  were 
furious,  they  were  agitated,  and  bristled  up;  the  first 
enthusiasm  over  Amede'e  Violette's  verses  could  not  be 
lasting  and  had  been  only  a  mere  flash.  The  young 
man  saw  these  Merovingians  as  they  really  were  to- 
ward a  man  who  succeeded,  that  is,  severe  almost  to 
cruelty.  What !  the  first  edition  of  Poems  from  Nature 
was  exhausted  and  Massif  had  another  in  press! 
What!  the  bourgeoisie,  far  from  being  "astonished"  at 
this  book,  declared  themselves  delighted  with  it,  bought 

[150] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

it,  read  it,  and  perhaps  had  it  rebound!  They  spoke 
favorably  of  it  in  all  the  bourgeois  journals,  that  is  to 
say,  in  those  that  had  subscribers!  Did  they  not  say 
that  Violette,  incited  by  Jocquelet,  was  working  at  a 
grand  comedy  in  verse,  and  that  the  Theatre-Fran- 
cais  had  made  very  flattering  offers  to  the  poet?  But 
then,  if  he  pleased  the  bourgeoisie  so  much  he  was— 
oh,  horror! — a  bourgeois  himself.  That  was  obvious. 
How  blind  they  had  been  not  to  see  it  sooner!  When 
Ame'dee  had  read  his  verses  not  long  since  at  Sillery's, 
by  what  aberration  had  they  confounded  this  platitude 
with  simplicity,  this  whining  with  sincere  emotion, 
these  stage  tricks  with  art  ?  Ah !  you  may  rest  assured, 
they  never  will  be  caught  again! 

As  the  poets'  tables  at  the  Cafe  de  Seville  had  been 
for  some  time  transformed  into  beds  of  torture  upon 
which  Amedee  Violette's  poems  were  stretched  out 
and  racked  every  day  from  five  to  seven,  the  amiable 
Paul  Sillery,  with  a  jeering  smile  upon  his  lips,  tried 
occasionally  to  cry  pity  for  his  friend's  verses,  given 
up  to  such  ferocious  executioners.  But  these  literary 
murderers,  ready  to  destroy  a  comrade's  book,  are 
more  pitiless  than  the  Inquisition.  There  were  two 
inquisitors  more  relentless  than  the  others;  first,  the 
little  scrubby  fellow  who  claimed  for  his  share  all  the 
houris  of  a  Mussulman's  palace;  another,  the  great 
elegist  from  the  provinces.  Truly,  his  heartaches  must 
have  made  him  gain  flesh,  for  very  soon  he  was  obliged 
to  let  out  the  strap  on  his  waistcoat. 

Of  course,  when  Ame'dee  appeared,  the  conversation 
was  immediately  changed,  and  they  began  to  talk  of 

[151] 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

insignificant  things  that  they  had  read  in  the  journals; 
for  example,  the  fire-damp,  which  had  killed  twenty- 
five  working-men  in  a  mine,  in  a  department  of  the 
north;  or  of  the  shipwreck  of  a  transatlantic  steamer 
in  which  everything  was  lost,  with  one  hundred  and 
fifty  passengers  and  forty  sailors — events  of  no  impor- 
tance, we  must  admit,  if  one  compares  them  to  the 
recent  discovery  made  by  the  poet  inquisitors  of  two 
incorrect  phrases  and  five  weak  rhymes  in  their  com- 
rade's work. 

Ame*dee's  sensitive  nature  soon  remarked  the  secret 
hostility  of  which  he  was  the  object  in  this  group  of 
poets,  and  he  now  came  to  the  Cafe"  de  Seville  only  on 
rare  occasions,  in  order  to  take  Paul  Sillery  by  the  hand, 
who,  in  spite  of  his  ironical  air,  had  always  shown 
himself  a  good  and  faithful  friend. 

It  was  there  that  he  recognized  one  evening  his 
classmate  of  the  Lycee,  Arthur  Papillon,  seated  at  one 
of  the  political  tables.  The  poet  wondered  to  himself 
how  this  fine  lawyer,  with  his  temperate  opinions,  hap- 
pened to  be  among  these  hot-headed  revolutionists, 
and  what  interest  in  common  could  unite  this  correct 
pair  of  blond  whiskers  to  the  uncultivated,  bushy  ones. 
Papillon,  as  soon  as  he  saw  Ame'de'e,  took  leave  of  the 
group  with  whom  he  was  talking  and  came  and  offered 
his  hearty  congratulations  to  the  author  of  Poems  jrom 
Nature,  leading  him  out  upon  the  boulevard  and  giv- 
ing him  the  key  to  the  mystery. 

All  the  old  parties  were  united  against  the  Empire, 
in  view  of  the  coming  elections ;  Orleanists  and  Repub- 
licans were,  for  the  time  being,  close  friends.  He, 

[152] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

Papillon,  had  just  taken  his  degree,  and  had  attached 
himself  to  the  fortunes  of  an  old  wreck  of  the  July 
government;  who,  having  rested  in  oblivion  since  1852, 
had  consented  to  run  as  candidate  for  the  Liberal 
opposition  in  Seine-et-Oise.  Papillon  was  flying  around 
like  a  hen  with  her  head  cut  off,  to  make  his  companion 
win  the  day.  He  came  to  the  Seville  to  assure  himself 
of  the  neutral  good-will  of  the  unreconciled  journal- 
ists, and  he  was  full  of  hope. 

"Oh!  my  dear  friend,  how  difficult  it  is  to  struggle 
against  an  official  candidate!  But  our  candidate  is  an 
astonishing  man.  He  goes  about  all  day  upon  the 
railroads  in  our  department,  unfolding  his  programme 
before  the  travelling  countrymen  and  changing  com- 
partments at  each  station.  What  a  stroke  of  genius! 
a  perambulating  public  assembling.  This  idea  came 
to  him  from  seeing  a  harpist  make  the  trip  from  Havre 
to  Honfleur,  playing  'II  Bacio'  all  the  time.  Ah,  one 
must  look  alive!  The  prefect  does  not  shrink  from 
any  way  of  fighting  us.  Did  he  not  spread  through 
one  of  our  most  Catholic  cantons  the  report  that  we 
were  Voltairians,  enemies  to  religion  and  devourers  of 
priests?  Fortunately,  we  have  yet  four  Sundays  be- 
fore us,  from  now  until  the  voting-day,  and  the  patron 
will  go  to  high  mass  and  communion  in  our  four  more 
important  parishes.  That  will  be  a  response !  If  such 
a  man  is  not  elected,  universal  suffrage  is  hopeless!" 

Ame'dee  was  not  at  that  time  so  disenchanted  with 
political  matters  as  he  became  later,  and  he  asked  him- 
self with  an  uneasy  feeling  whether  this  model  candi- 
date, who  was  perhaps  about  to  give  himself  sacrile- 


FRANCOIS  COPPtiE 

gious  indigestion,  and  who  showed  his  profession  of 
faith  as  a  cutler  shows  his  knives,  was  not  simply  a 
quack. 

Arthur  Papillon  did  not  give  him  time  to  devote 
himself  to  such  unpleasant  reflections,  but  said  to  him, 
in  a  frank,  protecting  tone : 

"And  you,  my  boy,  let  us  see,  where  do  you  stand  ? 
You  have  been  very  successful,  have  you  not?  The 
other  evening  at  the  house  of  Madame  la  Comtesse 
Fontaine,  you  know — the  widow  of  one  of  Louis 
Philippe's  ministers  and  daughter  of  Marshal  Lefievre 
— Jocquelet  recited  your  'Sebastopol'  with  enormous 
success.  What  a  voice  that  Jocquelet  has!  We  have 
not  his  like  at  the  Paris  bar.  Fortunate  poet !  I  have 
seen  your  book  lying  about  in  the  boudoir  of  more 
than  one  beautiful  woman.  Well,  I  hope  that  you  will 
leave  the  Cafe  de  Seville  and  not  linger  with  all  these 
badly  combed  fellows.  You  must  go  into  society;  it 
is  indispensable  to  a  man  of  letters,  and  I  will  present 
you  whenever  you  wish." 

For  the  time  being  Amedee's  ardor  was  a  little 
dampened  concerning  the  Bohemians  with  whom  he 
enjoyed  so  short  a  favor,  and  who  had  also  in  many 
ways  shocked  his  delicacy.  He  was  not  desirous  to  be 
called  "thou"  by  Pere  Lebuffle. 

But  to  go  into  society!  His  education  had  been  so 
modest!  Should  he  know  how  to  appear,  how  to  con- 
duct himself  properly?  He  asked  this  of  Papillon. 
Our  poet  was  proud,  he  feared  ridicule,  and  would  not 
consent  to  play  an  inferior  role  anywhere;  and  then 
his  success  just  then  was  entirely  platonic.  He  was 

[i54] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

still  very  poor  and  lived  in  the  Faubourg  St. -Jacques. 
Massif  ought  to  pay  him  in  a  few  days  five  hundred 
francs  for  the  second  edition  of  his  book;  but  what  is 
a  handful  of  napoleons? 

"It  is  enough,"  said  the  advocate,  who  thought  of 
his  friend's  dress.  "It  is  all  that  is  necessary  to  buy 
fine  linen,  and  a  well  cut  dress-coat,  that  is  the  essen- 
tial thing.  Good  form  consists,  above  all  things,  in 
keeping  silent.  With  your  fine  and  yielding  nature 
you  will  become  at  once  a  gentleman;  better  still,  you 
are  not  a  bad-looking  fellow;  you  have  an  interesting 
pallor.  I  am  convinced  that  you  will  please.  It  is 
now  the  beginning  of  July,  and  Paris  is  almost  empty, 
but  Madame  la  Comtesse  Fontaine  does  not  go  away 
until  the  vacations,  as  she  is  looking  after  her  little 
son,  who  is  finishing  his  studies  at  the  Lyc£e  Bona- 
parte. The  Countess's  drawing-rooms  are  open  every 
evening  until  the  end  of  the  month,  and  one  meets 
there  all  the  chic  people  who  are  delayed  in  Paris,  or 
who  stop  here  between  two  journeys.  Madame  Fon- 
taine is  a  very  amiable  and  influential  old  lady;  she 
has  a  fancy  for  writers  when  they  are  good  company. 
Do  not  be  silly,  but  go  and  order  yourself  some  evening 
clothes.  By  presenting  you  there,  my  dear  fellow,  I 
assure  you,  perhaps  in  fifteen  years,  a  seat  in  the 
Academy.  It  is  agreed!  Get  ready  for  next  week." 

Attention!  Ame'de'e  Violette  is  about  to  make  his 
first  appearance  in  society. 

Although  his  concierge,  who  aided  him  to  finish  his 
toilette  and  saw  him  put  on  his  white  cravat,  had 
just  said  to  him,  "What  a  love  of  a  husband  you 

[i55] 


FRANCOIS  COPPtiE 

would  make!"  the  poet's  heart  beat  rapidly  when  the 
carriage  in  which  he  was  seated  beside  Arthur  Pa- 
pillon  stopped  before  the  steps  of  an  old  house  in  the 
Rue  de  Bellechasse,  where  Madame  la  Comtesse  Fon- 
taine lived. 

In  the  vestibule  he  tried  to  imitate  the  advocate's 
bearing,  which  was  full  of  authority;  but  quickly  de- 
spaired of  knowing  how  to  swell  out  his  starched 
shirt-front  under  the  severe  looks  of  four  tall  lackeys 
in  silk  stockings.  Amedee  was  as  much  embarrassed 
as  if  he  were  presented  naked  before  an  examining 
board.  But  they  doubtless  found  him  "good  for  ser- 
vice," for  the  door  opened  into  a  brightly  lighted  draw- 
ing-room into  which  he  followed  Arthur  Papillon,  like 
a  frail  sloop  towed  in  by  an  imposing  three-master, 
and  behold  the  timid  Amedee  presented  in  due  form 
to  the  mistress  of  the  house!  She  was  a  lady  of  ele- 
phantine proportions,  in  her  sixtieth  year,  and  wore  a 
white  camellia  stuck  in  her  rosewood-colored  hair. 
Her  face  and  arms  were  plastered  with  enough  flour 
to  make  a  plate  of  fritters;  but  for  all  that,  she  had  a 
grand  air  and  superb  eyes,  whose  commanding  glance 
was  softened  by  so  kindly  a  smile  that  Amedee  was  a 
trifle  reassured. 

She  had  much  applauded  M.  Violette's  beautiful 
verse,  she  said,  that  Jocquelet  had  recited  at  her 
house  on  the  last  Thursday  of  her  season;  and  she 
had  just  read  with  the  greatest  pleasure  his  Poems  from 
Nature.  She  thanked  M.  Papillon — who  bows  his  head 
and  lets  his  monocle  fall — for  having  brought  M.  Vi- 
olette.  She  was  charmed  to  make  his  acquaintance. 

[156] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

Amedee  was  very  much  embarrassed  to  know  what 
to  reply  to  this  commonplace  compliment  which  was 
paid  so  gracefully.  Fortunately  he  was  spared  this 
duty  by  the  arrival  of  a  very  much  dressed,  tall,  bony 
woman,  toward  whom  the  Countess  darted  off  with 
astonishing  vivacity,  exclaiming,  joyfully:  "Madame  la 
Marechale!"  and  Amedee,  still  following  in  the  wake 
of  his  comrade,  sailed  along  toward  the  corner  of  the 
drawing-room,  and  then  cast  anchor  before  a  whole 
flotilla  of  black  coats.  Amedee's  spirits  began  to  re- 
vive, and  he  examined  the  place,  so  entirely  new  to 
him,  where  his  growing  reputation  had  admitted  him. 

It  was  a  vast  drawing-room  after  the  First  Empire 
style,  hung  and  furnished  in  yellow  satin,  whose  high 
white  panels  were  decorated  with  trophies  of  antique 
weapons  carved  in  wood  and  gilded.  A  dauber  from 
the  Ecole  des  Beaux-Arts  would  have  branded  with 
the  epithet  "sham"  the  armchairs  and  sofas  orna- 
mented with  sphinx  heads  in  bronze,  as  well  as  the 
massive  green  marble  clock  upon  which  stood,  all  in 
gold,  a  favorite  court  personage,  clothed  in  a  cap, 
sword,  and  fig-leaf,  who  seemed  to  be  making  love  to 
a  young  person  in  a  floating  tunic,  with  her  hair  dressed 
exactly  like  that  of  the  Empress  Josephine.  But  the 
dauber  would  have  been  wrong,  for  this  massive 
splendor  was  wanting  neither  in  grandeur  nor  char- 
acter. Two  pictures  only  lighted  up  the  cold  walls; 
one,  signed  by  Gros,  was  an  equestrian  portrait  of  the 
Marshal,  Madame  Fontaine's  father,  the  old  drummer 
of  Pont  de  Lodi,  one  of  the  bravest  of  Napoleon's  lieu- 
tenants. He  was  represented  in  full-dress  uniform, 


FRANCOIS  COPP&E 

with  an  enormous  black-plumed  hat,  brandishing  his 
blue  velvet  baton,  sprinkled  with  golden  bees,  and 
under  the  rearing  horse's  legs  one  could  see  in  the  dim 
distance  a  grand  battle  in  the  snow,  and  mouths  of 
burning  cannons.  The  other  picture,  placed  upon  an 
easel  and  lighted  by  a  lamp  with  a  reflector,  was  one 
of  Ingre's  chej-d'ceuvres.  It  was  the  portrait  of  the 
mistress  of  the  house  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  a  portrait 
of  which  the  Countess  was  now  but  an  old  and  horrible 
caricature. 

Arthur  Papillon  talked  in  a  low  voice  with  Amedee, 
explaining  to  him  how  Madame  Fontaine's  drawing- 
room  was  neutral  ground,  open  to  people  of  all  parties. 
As  daughter  of  a  Marshal  of  the  First  Empire,  the 
Countess  preserved  the  highest  regard  for  the  people 
at  the  Tuileries,  although  she  was  the  widow  of  Count 
Fontaine,  who  was  one  of  the  brood  of  Royer-Collard's 
conservatives,  a  parliamentarian  ennobled  by  Louis- 
Philippe,  twice  a  colleague  of  Guizot  on  the  ministerial 
bench,  who  died  of  spite  and  suppressed  ambition 
after  '48  and  the  coup  d'etat.  Besides,  the  Countess's 
brother,  the  Due  d'Eylau,  married,  in  1829,  one  of 
the  greatest  heiresses  in  the  Faubourg  St. -Germain; 
for  his  father,  the  Marshal,  whose  character  did  not 
equal  his  bravery,  attached  himself  to  every  govern- 
ment, and  carried  his  candle  in  the  processions  on 
Corpus  Christi  Day  under  Charles  X,  and  had  ended 
by  being  manager  of  the  Invalides  at  the  beginning  of 
the  July  monarchy.  Thanks  to  this  fortunate  com- 
bination of  circumstances,  one  met  several  great  lords, 
many  Orleanists,  a  certain  number  of  official  persons, 

[158] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

and  even  some  republicans  of  high  rank,  in  this  liberal 
drawing-room,  where  the  Countess,  who  was  an  ad- 
mirable hostess,  knew  how  to  attract  learned  men, 
writers,  artists,  and  celebrities  of  all  kinds,  as  well 
as  young  and  pretty  women.  As  the  season  was  late, 
the  gathering  this  evening  was  not  large.  However, 
neglecting  the  unimportant  gentlemen  whose  ancestors 
had  perhaps  been  fabricated  by  Pere  Issacar,  Papillon 
pointed  out  to  his  friend  a  few  celebrities.  One,  with 
the  badge  of  the  Legion  of  Honor  upon  his  coat,  which 
looked  as  if  it  had  come  from  the  stall  of  an  old-clothes 
man,  was  Forgerol,  the  great  geologist,  the  most  grasp- 
ing of  scientific  men;  Forgerol,  rich  from  his  twenty 
fat  sinecures,  for  whom  one  of  his  confreres  composed 
this  epitaph  in  advance:  "Here  lies  Forgerol,  in  the 
only  place  he  did  not  solicit." 

That  grand  old  man,  with  the  venerable,  shaky  head, 
whose  white,  silky  hair  seemed  to  shed  blessings  and 
benedictions,  was  M.  Dussant  du  Fosse,  a  philan- 
thropist by  profession,  honorary  president  of  all  charit- 
able works;  senator,  of  course,  since  he  was  one  of 
France's  peers,  and  who  in  a  few  years  after  the  Prus- 
sians had  left,  and  the  battles  were  over,  would  sink 
into  suspicious  affairs  and  end  in  the  police  courts. 

That  old  statesman,  whose  rough,  gray  hairs  were 
like  brushes  for  removing  cobwebs,  a  pedant  from 
head  to  foot,  leaning  in. his  favorite  attitude  against  the 
mantel  decorated  only  with  flowers,  by  his  mulish 
obstinacy  contributed,  much  to  the  fall  of  the  last  mon- 
archy. He  was  respectfully  listened  to  and  called 
"dear  master"  by  a  republican  orator,  whose  red-hot 

[i59] 


FRANCOIS  COPPfiE 

convictions  began  to  ooze  away,  and  who,  soon  after, 
as  minister  of  the  Liberal  empire,  did  his  best  to  hasten 
the  government's  downfall. 

Although  Amedee  was  of  an  age  to  respect  these 
notabilities,  whom  Papillon  pointed  out  to  him  with 
so  much  deference,  they  did  not  impress  him  so  much 
as  certain  visitors  who  belonged  to  the  world  of  art  and 
letters.  In  considering  them  the  young  man  was 
much  surprised  and  a  little  saddened  at  the  want  of 
harmony  that  he  discovered  between  the  appearance 
of  the  men  and  the  nature  of  their  talents.  The  poet 
Leroy  des  Saules  had  the  haughty  attitude  and  the 
Apollo  face  corresponding  to  the  noble  and  perfect 
beauty  of  his  verses;  but  Edouard  Durocher,  the  fash- 
ionable painter  of  the  nineteenth  century,  was  a  large, 
common-looking  man  with  a  huge  moustache,  like 
that  of  a  book  agent;  and  Theophile  de  Sonis,  the  ele- 
gant story-writer,  the  worldly  romancer,  had  a  copper- 
colored  nose,  and  his  harsh  beard  was  like  that  of  a 
chief  in  a  custom-house. 

What  attracted  Amedee's  attention,  above  all  things, 
were  the  women — the  fashionable  women  that  he  saw 
close  by  for  the  first  time.  Some  of  them  were  old, 
and  horrified  him.  The  jewels  with  which  they  were 
loaded  made  their  fatigued  looks,  dark-ringed  eyes, 
heavy  profiles,  thick  flabby  lips,  like  a  dromedary's, 
still  more  distressing;  and  with  their  bare  necks  and 
arms — it  was  etiquette  at  Madame  Fontaine's  recep- 
tions— which  allowed  one  to  see  through  filmy  lace 
their  flabby  flesh  or  bony  skeletons,  they  were  as  ridicu- 
lous as  an  elegant  cloak  would  be  upon  an  old  crone. 

[160] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

As  he  saw  these  decrepit,  painted  creatures,  the  young 
man  felt  the  respect  that  he  should  have  for  the  old 
leave  him.  He  would  look  only  at  the  young  and 
beautiful  women,  those  with  graceful  figures  and  tri- 
umphant smiles  upon  their  lips,  flowers  in  their  hair, 
and  diamonds  upon  their  necks.  All  this  bare  flesh 
intimidated  Amedee;  for  he  had  been  brought  up  so 
privately  and  strictly  that  he  was  distressed  enough  to 
lower  his  eyes  at  the  sight  of  so  many  arms,  necks,  and 
shoulders.  He  thought  of  Maria  Gerard  as  she  looked 
the  other  day,  when  he  met  her  going  to  work  in  the 
Louvre,  so  pretty  in  her  short  high-necked  dress,  her 
magnificent  hair  flying  out  from  her  close  bonnet,  and 
her  box  of  pastels  in  her  hand.  How  much  more 
he  preferred  this  simple  rose,  concealed  among  thorns, 
to  all  these  too  full-blown  peonies! 

Soon  the  enormous  and  amiable  Countess  came  to 
the  poet  and  begged  him,  to  his  great  confusion,  to 
recite  a  few  verses.  He  was  forced  to  do  it.  It  was 
his  turn  to  lean  upon  the  mantel.  Fortunately  it  was 
a  success  for  him;  all  the  full-blown  peonies,  who  did 
not  understand  much  of  his  poetry,  thought  him  a 
handsome  man,  with  his  blue  eyes,  and  their  ardent, 
melancholy  glance;  and  they  applauded  him  as  much 
as  they  could  without  bursting  their  very  tight  gloves. 
They  surrounded  him  and  complimented  him.  Ma- 
dame Fontaine  presented  him  to  the  poet  Leroy  des 
Saules,  who  congratulated  him  with  the  right  word, 
and  invited  him  with  a  paternal  air  to  come  and  see 
him.  It  would  have  been  a  very  happy  moment  for 
Amedee,  if  one  of  the  old  maids  with  camel-like  lips, 
ii  [  161  ] 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

whose  stockings  were  probably  as  blue  as  her  eyelids, 
had  not  monopolized  him  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour, 
putting  him  through  a  sort  of  an  examination  on  con- 
temporary poets.  At  last  the  poet  retired,  after  re- 
ceiving a  cup  of  tea  and  an  invitation  to  dinner  for  the 
next  Tuesday.  Then  he  was  once  more  seated  in  the 
carriage  with  Arthur  Papillon,  who  gave  him  a  slap 
on  the  thigh,  exclaiming,  joyfully : 

"Well,  you  are  launched!" 

It  was  true;  he  was  launched,  and  he  will  wear  out 
more  than  one  suit  of  evening  clothes  before  he  learns 
all  that  this  action  "going  into  society,"  which  seems 
nothing  at  all  at  first,  and  which  really  is  nothing,  im- 
plies, to  an  industrious  man  and  artist,  of  useless 
activity  and  lost  time.  He  is  launched !  He  has  made 
a  successful  debut!  A  dinner  in  the  city!  At  Ma- 
dame Fontaine's  dinner  on  the  next  Tuesday,  some 
abominable  wine  and  aged  salmon  was  served  to  Ame'- 
dee  by  a  butler  named  Adolphe,  who  ought  rather  to 
have  been  called  Exili  or  Castaing,  and  who,  after  fif- 
teen years'  service  to  the  Countess,  already  owned  two 
good  paying  houses  in  Paris.  At  the  time,  however, 
all  went  well,  for  Amedee  had  a  good  healthy  stomach 
and  could  digest  buttons  from  a  uniform ;  but  when  all 
the  Borgias,  in  black-silk  stockings  and  white-silk 
gloves,  who  wish  to  become  house-owners,  have  cooked 
their  favorite  dishes  for  him,  and  have  practised  only 
half  a  dozen  winters,  two  or  three  times  a  week  upon 
him,  we  shall  know  more  as  to  his  digestion.  Still 
that  dinner  was  enjoyable.  Beginning  with  the  sus- 
picious salmon,  the  statesman  with  the  brush-broom 

[162] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

head,  the  one  who  had  overthrown  Louis-Philippe 
without  suspecting  it,  started  to  explain  how,  if  they 
had  listened  to  his  advice,  this  constitutional  king's 
dynasty  would  yet  be  upon  the  throne;  and  at  the 
moment  when  the  wretched  butler  poured  out  his 
most  poisonous  wine,  the  old  lady  who  looked  like  a 
dromedary  with  rings  in  its  ears,  made  Amedee — her 
unfortunate  neighbor — undergo  a  new  oral  examina- 
tion upon  the  poets  of  the  nineteenth  century,  and 
asked  him  what  he  thought  of  Lamartine's  clamorous 
debts,  and  Victor  Hugo's  foolish  pride,  and  Alfred  de 
Musset's  intemperate  habits. 

The  worthy  Amedee  is  launched!  He  will  go  and 
pay  visits  of  indigestion;  appear  one  day  at  Madame 
such  a  one's,  and  at  the  houses  of  several  other  "Ma- 
dames."  At  first  he  will  stay  there  a  half -hour,  the 
simpleton!  until  he  sees  that  the  cunning  ones  only 
come  in  and  go  out  exactly  as  one  does  in  a  booth  at 
a  fair.  He  will  see  pass  before  him — but  this  time  in 
corsages  of  velvet  or  satin — all  the  necks  and  shoulders 
of  his  acquaintances,  those  that  he  turned  away  from 
with  disgust  and  those  that  made  him  blush.  Each 
Madame  this  one,  entering  Madame  that  one's  house, 
will  seat  herself  upon  the  edge  of  a  chair,  and  will 
always  say  the  same  inevitable  thing,  the  only  thing 
that  can  be  or  should  be  said  that  day;  for  example, 
"So  the  poor  General  is  dead!"  or  "Have  you  heard 
the  new  piece  at  the  Francais?  It  is  not  very  strong, 
but  it  is  well  played!"  "This  will  be  delicious;"  and 
Amedee  will  admire,  above  all  things,  Madame  this 

one's  play  of  countenance,  when  Madame  G tells 

[163] 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

her  that  Madame  B—  -'s  daughter  is  to  marry  Ma- 
dame C—  -s  nephew.  While  she  hardly  knows  these 
people,  she  will  manifest  as  lively  a  joy  as  if  they  had 
announced  the  death  of  an  old  aunt,  whose  money  she 
is  waiting  for  to  renew  the  furniture  in  her  house.  And, 
on  the  contrary,  when  Madame  D—  -  announces  that 
Madame  E—  -'s  little  son  has  the  whooping-cough,  at 
once,  without  transition,  by  a  change  of  expression  that 
would  make  the  fortune  of  an  actress,  the  lady  of  the 
house  puts  on  an  air  of  consternation,  as  if  the  cholera 
had  broken  out  the  night  before  in  the  Halles  quarter. 
Amedee  is  launched,  I  repeat  it.  He  is  still  a  little 
green  and  will  become  the  dupe,  for  a  long  time,  of  all 
the  shams,  grimaces,  acting,  and  false  smiles,  which 
cover  so  many  artificial  teeth.  At  first  sight  all  is 
elegance,  harmony,  and  delicacy.  Since  Amedee  does 
not  know  that  the  Princess  Krazinska's  celebrated 
head  of  hair  was  cut  from  the  heads  of  the  Breton 
girls,  how  could  he  suspect  that  the  austere  defender 
of  the  clergy,  M.  Lemarguillier,  had  been  gravely 
compromised  in  a  love  affair,  and  had  thrown  himself 
at  the  feet  of  the  chief  of  police,  exclaiming,  "Do  not 
ruin  me!"  When  the  king  of  society  is  announced, 
the  young  Due  de  la  Tour-Prends- Garde,  whose  one 
ancestor  was  at  the  battle  of  the  bridge,  and  who  is 
just  now  introducing  a  new  style  in  trousers,  Amedee 
could  not  suspect  that  the  favorite  amusement  of  this 
fashionable  rake  consisted  in  drinking  in  the  morning 
upon  an  empty  stomach,  with  his  coachman,  at  a 
grog-shop  on  the  corner.  When  the  pretty  Baroness 
des  Nenuphars  blushed  up  to  her  ears  because  some- 

[164] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

one  spoke  the  word  " tea-spoon"  before  her,  and  she 
considered  it  to  be  an  unwarrantable  indelicacy — no- 
body knows  why — it  is  assuredly  not  our  young  friend 
who  will  suspect  that,  in  order  to  pay  the  gambling 
debts  of  her  third  lover,  this  modest  person  had  just 
sold  secretly  her  family  jewels. 

Rest  assured  Amedee  will  lose  all  these  illusions  in 
time.  The  day  will  come  when  he  will  not  take  in 
earnest  this  grand  comedy  in  white  cravats.  He  will 
not  have  the  bad  taste  to  show  his  indignation.  No! 
he  will  pity  these  unfortunate  society  people  con- 
demned to  hypocrisy  and  falsehood.  He  will  even 
excuse  their  whims  and  vices  as  he  thinks  of  the  fright- 
ful ennui  that  overwhelms  them.  Yes,  he  will  under- 
stand how  the  unhappy  Due  de  la  Tour-Prends-Garde, 
who  is  condemned  to  hear  La  Favorita  seventeen  times 
during  the  winter,  may  feel  at  times  the  need  of  a 
violent  distraction,  and  go  to  drink  white  wine  with 
his  servant.  Amedee  will  be  full  of  indulgence,  only 
one  must  pardon  him  for  his  plebeian  heart  and  native 
uncouthness;  for  at  the  moment  when  he  shall  have 
fathomed  the  emptiness  and  vanity  of  this  worldly 
farce,  he  will  keep  all  of  his  sympathy  for  those  who 
retain  something  like  nature.  He  will  esteem  infinitely 
more  the  poorest  of  the  workmen — a  wood-sawyer  or 
a  bell-hanger — than  a  politician  haranguing  from  the 
mantel,  or  an  old  literary  dame  who  sparkles  like  a  win- 
dow in  the  Palais-Royal,  and  is  tattooed  like  a  Carib- 
bean; he  will  prefer  an  old,  wrinkled,  village  grand- 
dame  in  her  white  cap,  who  still  hoes,  although  sixty 
years  old,  her  little  field  of  potatoes. 

[165] 


CHAPTER  XIII 


A  SERPENT  AT  THE  FIRESIDE 

LITTLE  more  than  a  year  has 
passed.  It  is  now  the  first  days  of 
October;  and  when  the  morning 
mist  is  dissipated,  the  sky  is  of  so 
limpid  a  blue  and  the  air  so  pure 
and  fresh,  that  Amedee  Violette  is 
almost  tempted  to  make  a  paper 
kite  and  fly  it  over  the  fortifications, 
as  he  did  in  his  youth.  But  the  age  for  that  has 
passed;  Amedee's  real  kite  is  more  fragile  than  if  it 
had  been  made  of  sticks  and  pieces  of  old  paper  pasted 
on  one  over  another;  it  does  not  ascend  very  high 
yet,  and  the  thread  that  sails  it  is  not  very  strong. 
Amedee's  kite  is  his  growing  reputation.  He  must 
work  to  sustain  it;  and  always  with  the  secret  hope  of 
making  little  Maria  his  wife.  Amedee  works.  He  is 
not  so  poor  now,  since  he  earns  at  the  ministry  two 
hundred  francs  a  month,  and  from  time  to  time  pub- 
lishes a  prose  story  in  journals  where  his  copy  is  paid 
for.  He  has  also  left  his  garret  in  the  Faubourg  St- 
Jacques  and  lives  on  the  He  St.  Louis,  in  one  room 
only,  but  large  and  bright,  from  whose  window  he  can 
see,  as  he  leans  out,  the  coming  and  going  of  boats  on 
the  river  and  the  sun  as  it  sets  behind  Notre-Dame. 

[166] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

Amedee  has  been  working  mostly  upon  his  drama 
for  the  Come'die-Francaise  this  summer,  and  it  is  nearly 
done;  it  is  a  modern  drama  in  verse,  entitled  L' Atel- 
ier. The  action  is  very  simple,  like  that  of  a  tragedy, 
but  he  believes  it  is  sympathetic  and  touching,  and  it 
ends  in  a  popular  way.  Amedee  thinks  he  has  used 
for  his  dialogue  familiar  but  nevertheless  poetic  lines, 
in  which  he  has  not  feared  to  put  in  certain  graphic 
words  and  energetic  speeches  from  the  mouths  of 
working-people. 

The  grateful  poet  has  destined  the  principal  role  for 
Jocquelet,  who  has  made  a  successful  debut  in  the 
Fourberies  de  Scapin,  and  who,  since  then,  has  won 
success  after  success.  Jocquelet,  like  all  comic  actors, 
aspires  to  play  also  in  drama.  He  can  do  so  in  reality, 
but  under  particular  conditions;  for  in  spite  of  his 
grotesque  nose,  he  has  strong  and  spirited  qualities, 
and  recites  verses  very  well.  He  is  to  represent  an  old 
mechanic,  in  his  friend's  work,  a  sort  of  faubourg 
Nestor,  and  this  type  will  accommodate  itself  very 
well  to  the  not  very  aristocratic  face  of  Jocquelet,  who 
more  and  more  proves  his  cleverness  at  "making-up." 
However,  at  first  the  actor  was  not  satisfied  with  his 
part.  He  fondles  the  not  well  defined  dream  of  all 
actors,  he  wishes,  like  all  the  others,  the  "leading  part." 
They  do  not  exactly  know  what  they  mean  by  it,  but 
in  their  dreams  is  vaguely  visible  a  wonderful  Alman- 
zor,  who  makes  his  first  entrance  in  an  open  barouche 
drawn  by  four  horses  harnessed  a  la  Daumont,  and 
descends  from  it  dressed  in  tight-fitting  gray  clothes, 
tasselled  boots,  and  decorations.  This  personage  is  as 


FRANCOIS  COPPfeE 

attractive  as  Don  Juan,  brave  as  Murat,  a  poet  like 
Shakespeare,  and  as  charitable  as  St.  Vincent  de  Paul. 
He  should  have,  before  the  end  of  the  first  act,  crushed 
with  love  by  one  single  glance,  the  young  leading 
actress;  dispersed  a  dozen  assassins  with  his  sword; 
addressed  to  the  stars — that  is  to  say,  the  spectators 
in  the  upper  gallery — a  long  speech  of  eighty  or  a 
hundred  lines,  and  gathered  up  two  lost  children  under 
the  folds  of  his  cloak. 

A  "fine  leading  part"  should  also,  during  the  rest 
of  the  piece,  accomplish  a  certain  number  of  sublime 
acts,  address  the  multitude  from  the  top  of  a  staircase, 
insult  a  powerful  monarch  to  his  face,  dash  into  the 
midst  of  a  conflagration — always  in  the  long-topped 
boots.  The  ideal  part  would  be  for  him  to  discover 
America,  like  Christopher  Columbus;  win  pitched 
battles,  like  Bonaparte,  or  some  other  equally  senseless 
thing;  but  the  essential  point  is,  never  to  leave  the 
stage  and  to  talk  all  the  time — the  work,  in  reality, 
should  be  a  monologue  in  five  acts. 

This  role  of  an  old  workman,  offered  to  Jocquelet 
by  Amedee,  obtained  only  a  grimace  of  displeasure  from 
the  actor.  However,  it  ended  by  his  being  reconciled 
to  the  part,  studying  it,  and,  to  use  his  own  expression, 
"racking  his  brains  over  it,"  until  one  day  he  ran  to 
Violette's,  all  excited,  exclaiming: 

"I  have  the  right  idea  of  my  old  man  now!  I  will 
dress  him  in  a  tricot  waistcoat  with  ragged  sleeves  and 
dirty  blue  overalls.  He  is  an  apprentice,  is  he  not? 
A  fellow  with  a  beard!  Very  well!  in  the  great  scene 
where  they  tell  him  that  his  son  is  a  thief  and  he  defies 

[168] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

the  whole  of  the  workmen,  he  struggles  and  his  clothes 
are  torn  open,  showing  a  hairy  chest.  I  am  not  hairy, 
but  I  will  make  myself  so — does  that  fill  the  bill  ?  You 
will  see  the  effect." 

While  reserving  the  right  to  dissuade  Jocquelet  from 
making  himself  up  in  this  way,  Amedee  carried  his  manu- 
script to  the  director  of  the  Theatre  Francais,  who  asked 
a  little  time  to  look  it  over,  and  also  promised  the  young 
poet  that  he  would  read  it  aloud  to  the  committee. 

Amedee  is  very  anxious,  although  Maurice  Roger, 
to  whom  he  has  read  the  piece,  act  by  act,  predicts  an 
enthusiastic  acceptance. 

The  handsome  Maurice  has  been  installed  for  more 
than  a  year  in  a  studio  on  the  Rue  d'Assas  and  leads  a 
jolly,  free  life  there.  Does  he  work?  Sometimes;  by 
fits  and  starts.  And  although  he  abandons  his  sketches 
at  the  first  attack  of  idleness,  there  is  a  charm  about 
these  sketches,  suspended  upon  the  wall;  and  he  will 
some  day  show  his  talent.  One  of  his  greatest  pleas- 
ures is  to  see  pass  before  him  all  his  beautiful  models, 
at  ten  francs  an  hour.  With  palette  in  hand,  he  talks 
with  the  young  women,  tells  them  amusing  stories, 
and  makes  them  relate  all  their  love-affairs.  When 
friends  come  to  see  him,  they  can  always  see  a  model 
just  disappearing  behind  a  curtain.  Amedee  prefers 
to  visit  his  friend  on  Sunday  afternoons,  and  thus 
avoid  meeting  these  models;  and  then,  too,  he  meets 
there  on  that  day  Arthur  Papillon,  who  paves  the  way 
for  his  political  career  by  pleading  lawsuits  for  the 
press.  Although  he  is,  at  heart,  only  a  very  moderate 
Liberalist,  this  young  man,  with  the  very  chic  side 

[169] 


FRANCOIS  COPPEE 

whiskers,  defends  the  most  republican  of  "beards," 
if  it  can  be  called  defending;  for  in  spite  of  his  fine 
oratorical  efforts,  his  clients  are  regularly  favored  with 
the  maximum  of  punishment.  But  they  are  all  de- 
lighted with  it,  for  the  title  of  "political  convict"  is 
one  very  much  in  demand  among  the  irreconcilables. 
They  are  all  convinced  that  the  time  is  near  when  they 
will  overthrow  the  Empire,  without  suspecting,  alas! 
that  in  order  to  do  that  twelve  hundred  thousand  Ger- 
man bayonets  will  be  necessary.  The  day  after  the 
triumph,  the  month  of  imprisonment  will  be  taken 
into  account,  and  St.  Pelagic  is  not  the  carcere  duro. 
Papillon  is  cunning  and  wishes  to  have  a  finger  in 
every  pie,  so  he  goes  to  dine  once  a  week  with  those 
who  owe  their  sojourn  in  this  easy-going  jail  to  him, 
and  regularly  carries  them  a  lobster. 

Paul  Sillery,  who  has  also  made  Maurice's  acquaint- 
ance, loiters  in  this  studio.  The  amiable  Bohemian 
has  not  yet  paid  his  bill  to  Pere  LebufHe,  but  he  has 
cut  his  red  fleece  close  to  his  head,  and  publishes  every 
Sunday,  in  the  journals,  news  full  of  grace  and  humor. 
Of  course  they  will  never  pardon  him  at  the  Cafe  de 
Seville;  the  "long-haired"  ones  have  disowned  this 
traitor  who  has  gone  over  to  the  enemy,  and  is  now 
only  a  sickening  and  fetid  bourgeois;  and  if  the  poetical 
club  were  able  to  enforce  its  decrees,  Paul  Sillery,  like 
an  apostate  Jew  in  the  times  of  the  Inquisition,  would 
have  been  scourged  and  burned  alive.  Paul  Sillery 
does  not  trouble  himself  about  it,  however;  and  from 
time  to  time  returns  to  the  "Seville"  and  treats  its 
members  to  a  bumper  all  around,  which  he  pays  for 

[170] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

with  the  gold  of  his  dishonor.  Sometimes  Jocquelet 
appears,  with  his  smooth-shaved  face;  but  only  rarely, 
for  he  is  at  present  a  very  busy  man  and  already  cele- 
brated. His  audacious  nose  is  reproduced  in  all  posi- 
tions and  displayed  in  photographers'  windows,  where 
he  has  for  neighbors  the  negatives  most  in  demand; 
for  instance,  the  fatherly  and  benevolent  face  of  the 
pope,  Pius  IX,  or  the  international  limbs  of  Mademoi- 
selle Ketty,  the  majestic  fairy,  in  tights.  The  journals, 
which  print  Jocquelet's  name,  treat  him  sympatheti- 
cally and  conspicuously,  and  are  full  of  his  praises. 
"He  is  good  to  his  old  aunt,"  "gives  alms,"  "picked 
up  a  lost  dog  in  the  street  the  other  evening."  An 
artist  such  as  he,  who  stamps  immortality  on  all  the 
comic  repertory,  and  takes  Moliere  under  his  wing, 
has  no  time  to  go  to  visit  friends,  that  is  understood. 
However,  he  still  honors  Maurice  Roger  with  short 
visits.  He  only  has  time  to  make  all  the  knickknacks 
and  china  on  the  sideboard  tremble  with  the  noise  of 
his  terrible  voice;  only  time  to  tell  how,  on  the  night 
before,  in  the  greenroom,  when  still  clothed  in  Scapin's 
striped  cloak,  he  deigned  to  receive,  with  the  coldest 
dignity,  the  compliments  of  a  Royal  Highness,  or  some 
other  person  of  high  rank.  A  prominent  society  lady 
has  been  dying  of  love  for  him  the  past  six  months; 
she  occupies  stage  box  Number  Six — and  then  off  he 
goes.  Good  riddance! 

Ame'de'e  enjoys  himself  in  his  friend's  studio,  where 
gay  and  witty  artists  come  to  talk.  They  laugh  and 
amuse  themselves,  and  this  Sunday  resting-place  is 
the  most  agreeable  of  the  hard-working  poet's  recrea- 


FRANCOIS  COPPfiE 

tions.  Amedee  prolongs  them  as  long  as  possible, 
until  at  last  he  is  alone  with  his  friend;  then  the 
young  men  stretch  themselves  out  upon  the  Turkish 
cushions,  and  they  talk  freely  of  their  hopes,  ambitions, 
and  dreams  for  the  future. 

Amedee,  however,  keeps  one  secret  to  himself;  he 
never  has  told  of  his  love  for  Maria  Gerard.  Upon 
his  return  from  Italy  the  traveller  inquired  several 
times  for  the  Gerards,  sympathized  politely  with  their 
misfortune,  and  wished  to  be  remembered  to  them 
through  Amedee.  The  latter  had  been  very  reserved 
in  his  replies,  and  Maurice  no  longer  broaches  the  sub- 
ject in  their  conversation.  Is  it  through  neglect? 
After  all,  he  hardly  knew  the  ladies;  still,  Amedee  is 
not  sorry  to  talk  of  them  no  longer  with  his  friend, 
and  it  is  never  without  a  little  embarrassment  and  un- 
acknowledged jealousy  that  he  replies  to  Maria  when 
she  asks  for  news  of  Maurice. 

She  no  longer  inquires.  The  pretty  Maria  is  cross 
and  melancholy,  for  now  they  talk  only  of  one  thing  at 
the  Gerards;  it  is  always  the  same,  the  vulgar  and 
cruel  thought,  obtaining  the  means  to  live;  and  within 
a  short  time  they  have  descended  a  few  steps  lower  on 
the  slippery  ladder  of  poverty.  It  is  not  possible  to 
earn  enough  to  feed  three  mouths  with  a  piano  method 
and  a  box  of  pastels — or,  at  least,  it  does  not  hold  out. 
Louise  has  fewer  pupils,  and  Pere  Issacar  has  lessened 
his  orders.  Mamma  Gerard,  who  has  become  almost 
an  old  woman,  redoubles  her  efforts;  but  they  can  no 
longer  make  both  ends  meet.  Amede'e  sees  it,  and 
how  it  makes  him  suffer! 

[172] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

The  poor  women  are  proud,  and  complain  as  little 
as  possible;  but  the  decay  inside  this  house,  already 
so  modest,  is  manifested  in  many  ways.  Two  beautiful 
engravings,  the  last  of  their  father's  souvenirs,  had 
been  sold  in  an  hour  of  extreme  want;  and  one  could 
see,  by  the  clean  spots  upon  the  wall,  where  the 
frames  once  hung.  Madame  Gerard's  and  her  daugh- 
ters' mourning  seemed  to  grow  rusty,  and  at  the  Sun- 
day dinner  Amedee  now  brings,  instead  of  a  cake,  a 
pastry  pie,  which  sometimes  constitutes  the  entire 
meal.  There  is  only  one  bottle  of  old  wine  in  the 
cellar,  and  they  drink  wine  by  the  pot  from  the  grocer's. 
Each  new  detail  that  proves  his  friends'  distress  troubles 
the  sensitive  Amedee.  Once,  having  earned  ten  louis 
from  some  literary  work,  he  took  the  poor  mother  aside 
and  forced  her  to  accept  one  hundred  francs.  The 
unfortunate  woman,  trembling  with  emotion,  while 
two  large  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks,  admitted  that 
the  night  before,  in  order  to  pay  the  washerwoman, 
they  had  pawned  the  only  clock  in  the  house. 

What  can  he  do  to  assist  them,  to  help  them  to  lead 
a  less  terrible  life?  Ah!  if  Maria  would  have  it  so, 
they  could  be  married  at  once,  without  any  other  ex- 
pense than  the  white  dress,  as  other  poor  people  do; 
and  they  would  all  live  together.  He  has  his  salary  of 
twenty-four  hundred  francs,  besides  a  thousand  francs 
that  he  has  earned  in  other  ways.  With  Louise's  les- 
sons this  little  income  would  be  almost  sufficient.  Then 
he  would  exert  himself  to  sell  his  writings;  he  would 
work  hard,  and  they  could  manage.  Of  course  it  would 
be  quite  an  undertaking  on  his  part  to  take  all  this  fam- 


FRANCOIS  COPPtiE 

ily  under  his  charge.  Children  might  be  born  to  them. 
Had  he  not  begun  to  gain  a  reputation;  had  he  not  a 
future  before  him?  His  piece  might  be  played  and 
meet  with  success.  This  would  be  their  salvation. 
Oh!  the  happy  life  that  the  four  would  lead  together! 
Yes,  if  Maria  could  love  him  a  little,  if  he  persisted  in 
hoping,  if  she  had  the  courage,  it  was  the  only  step  to 
take. 

Becoming  enthusiastic  upon  this  subject,  Amedee 
decided  to  submit  the  question  to  the  excellent  Louise, 
in  whom  he  had  perfect  confidence,  and  considered  to 
be  goodness  and  truth  personified.  Every  Thursday, 
at  six  o'clock,  she  left  a  boarding-school  in  the  Rue  de 
la  Rochechouart,  where  she  gave  lessons  to  young 
ladies  in  singing.  He  would  go  and  wait  for  her  as 
she  came  out  that  very  evening.  And  there  he  met 
her.  Poor  Louise!  her  dress  was  lamentable;  and 
what  a  sad  countenance!  What  a  tired,  distressed 
look! 

"What,  you,  Amedee!"  said  she,  with  a  happy  smile, 
as  he  met  her. 

"Yes,  my  dear  Louise.  Take  my  arm  and  let  me 
accompany  you  part  of  the  way.  We  will  talk  as  we 
walk;  I  have  something  very  serious  to  say  to  you, 
confidentially — important  advice  to  ask  of  you." 

The  poet  then  began  to  make  his  confession.  He 
recalled  their  childhood  days  in  the  Rue  Notre-Dame- 
des-Champs,  when  they  played  together;  it  was  as 
long  ago  as  that  that  he  had  first  begun  to  be  charmed 
by  little  Maria.  As  soon  as  he  became  a  young  man 
he  felt  that  he  loved  the  dear  child,  and  had  always 

[i74] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

cherished  the  hope  that  he  might  inspire  her  with  a 
tender  sentiment  and  marry  her  some  day.  If  he  had 
not  spoken  sooner  it  was  because  he  was  too  poor, 
but  he  had  always  loved  her,  he  loved  her  now,  and 
never  should  love  any  other  woman.  He  then  ex- 
plained his  plan  of  life  in  simple  and  touching  terms; 
he  would  become  Madame  Gerard's  son  and  his  dear 
Louise's  brother;  the  union  of  their  two  poverties 
would  become  almost  comfort.  Was  it  not  very  sim- 
ple and  reasonable  ?  He  was  very  sure  that  she  would 
approve  of  it,  and  she  was  wisdom  itself  and  the  head 
of  the  family. 

While  he  was  talking  Louise  lowered  her  eyes  and 
looked  at  her  feet.  He  did  not  feel  that  she  was  trem- 
bling violently.  Blind,  blind  Amedee!  You  do  not 
see,  you  will  never  see,  that  she  is  the  one  who  loves 
you !  Without  hope !  she  knows  that  very  well ;  she  is 
older  than  you,  she  is  not  pretty,  and  she  will  always  be 
in  your  eyes  an  adopted  elder  sister,  who  once  showed 
you  your  alphabet  letters  with  the  point  of  her  knitting- 
needle.  She  has  suspected  for  a  long  time  your  love 
for  Maria;  she  suffers,  but  she  is  resigned  to  it,  and 
she  will  help  you,  the  brave  girl!  But  this  confession 
that  you  make,  Maria's  name  that  you  murmur  into 
her  ear  in  such  loving  accents,  this  dream  of  happiness 
in  which,  in  your  artless  egotism,  you  reserve  for  her 
the  role  of  an  old  maid  who  will  bring  up  your  children, 
is  cruel,  oh!  how  cruel!  They  have  reached  the  Boule- 
vard Pigalle ;  the  sun  has  set,  the  sky  is  clear  and  bright 
as  a  turquoise,  and  the  sharp  autumn  wind  detaches 
the  last  of  the  dried  leaves  from  the  trees.  Amedee 

[i75] 


FRANCOIS  COPPEE 

is  silent,  but  his  anxious  glance  solicits  and  waits  for 
Louise's  reply. 

"Dear  Amede'e,"  said  she,  raising  her  frank,  pure 
eyes  to  his  face,  "you  have  the  most  generous  and  best 
of  hearts.  I  suspected  that  you  loved  Maria,  and  I 
would  be  glad  to  tell  you  at  once  that  she  loves  you,  so 
that  we  might  hereafter  be  but  one  family — but  frankly 
I  can  not.  Although  the  dear  child  is  a  little  frivolous, 
her  woman's  instinct  must  suspect  your  feeling  for  her, 
but  she  has  never  spoken  of  it  to  mamma  or  to  me. 
Have  confidence;  I  do  not  see  anything  that  augurs 
ill  for  you  in  that.  She  is  so  young  and  so  innocent 
that  she  might  love  you  without  suspecting  it  herself. 
It  is  very  possible,  probable  even,  that  your  avowal 
will  enlighten  her  as  to  the  state  of  her  own  heart. 
She  will  be  touched  by  your  love,  I  am  sure,  as  well 
as  by  your  devotion  to  the  whole  family.  I  hope,  with 
all  my  heart,  Amedee,  that  you  will  succeed;  for,  I 
can  say  it  to  you,  some  pleasure  must  happen  in  poor 
Maria's  life  soon.  She  has  moments  of  the  deepest 
sadness  and  attacks  of  weeping  that  have  made  me 
uneasy  for  some  time.  You  must  have  noticed,  too, 
that  she  is  overwhelmed  with  ennui.  I  can  see  that 
she  suffers  more  than  mamma  or  I,  at  the  hard  life 
that  we  lead.  It  is  not  strange  that  she  feels  as  she 
does,  for  she  is  pretty  and  attractive,  and  made  for 
happiness;  and  to  see  the  present  and  the  future  so  sad! 
How  hard  it  is!  You  can  understand,  my  friend,  how 
much  I  desire  this  marriage  to  take  place.  You  are 
so  good  and  noble,  you  will  make  Maria  happy;  but 
you  have  said  it,  I  am  the  one  who  represents  wisdom 

[176] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

in  our  house.  Let  me  have  then  a  few  days  in  which 
to  observe  Maria,  to  obtain  her  confidence,  to  discover 
perhaps  a  sentiment  in  her  heart  of  which  she  is  igno- 
rant; and  remember  that  you  have  a  sure  and  faithful 
ally  in  me." 

"Take  your  own  time,  dear  Louise,"  replied  the 
poet.  "I  leave  everything  to  you.  Whatever  you  do 
will  be  for  the  best." 

He  thanked  her  and  they  parted  at  the  foot  of  the  Rue 
Lepic.  It  was  a  bitter  pleasure  for  the  slighted  one  to 
give  the  young  man  her  poor,  deformed,  pianist's  hand, 
and  to  feel  that  he  pressed  it  with  hope  and  gratitude. 

She  desired  and  must  urge  this  marriage.  She  said 
this  over  and  over  again  to  herself,  as  she  walked  up 
the  steep  street,  where  crowds  of  people  were  swarm- 
ing at  the  end  of  their  day's  work.  No!  no!  Maria 
did  not  care  for  Amedee.  Louise  was  very  sure  of  it; 
but  at  all  events  it  was  necessary  that  she  should  try  to 
snatch  her  young  sister  from  the  discouragements  and 
bad  counsel  of  poverty.  Amedee  loved  her  and  would 
know  how  to  make  her  love  him.  In  order  to  assure 
their  happiness  these  two  young  people  must  be  united. 
As  to  herself,  what  matter!  If  they  had  children  she 
would  accept  in  advance  her  duties  as  coddling  aunt 
and  old  godmother.  Provided,  of  course,  that  Maria 
would  be  guided,  or,  at  least,  that  she  would  consent. 
She  was  so  pretty  that  she  was  a  trifle  vain.  She  was 
nourishing,  perhaps,  nobody  knew  what  fancy  or  vain 
hope,  based  upon  her  beauty  and  youth.  Louise  had 
grave  fears.  The  poor  girl,  with  her  thin,  bent  shoul- 
ders wrapped  up  in  an  old  black  shawl,  had  already 
12  [177] 


FRANCOIS  COPP6E 

forgotten  her  own  grief  and  only  thought  of  the  happi- 
ness of  others,  as  she  slowly  dragged  herself  up  Mont- 
martre  Hill.  When  she  reached  the  butcher's  shop  in 
front  of  the  mayor's  office,  she  remembered  a  request 
of  her  mother's;  and  as  is  always  the  case  with  the 
poor,  a  trivial  detail  is  mixed  with  the  drama  of  life. 
Louise,  without  forgetting  her  thoughts,  while  sacrific- 
ing her  own  heart,  went  into  the  shop  and  picked  out 
two  breaded  cutlets  and  had  them  done  up  in  brown 
paper,  for  their  evening's  repast. 

The  day  after  his  conversation  with  Louise,  Ame"- 
dee  felt  that  distressing  impatience  that  waiting  causes 
nervous  people.  The  day  at  the  office  seemed  unend- 
ing, and  in  order  to  escape  solitude,  at  five  o'clock  he 
went  to  Maurice's  studio,  where  he  had  not  been  for 
fifteen  days.  He  found  him  alone,  and  the  young  artist 
also  seemed  preoccupied.  While  Amedee  congratu- 
lated him  upon  a  study  placed  upon  an  easel,  Maurice 
walked  up  and  down  the  room  with  his  hands  in  his 
pocket,  and  eyes  upon  the  floor,  making  no  reply  to 
his  friend's  compliments.  Suddenly  he  stopped  and 
looking  at  Amedee  said: 

"Have  you  seen  the  Gerard  ladies  during  the  past 
few  days?" 

Maurice  had  not  spoken  of  these  ladies  for  several 
months,  and  the  poet  was  a  trifle  surprised. 

"Yes,"  he  replied.  "Not  later  than  yesterday  I  met 
Mademoiselle  Louise." 

"And,"  replied  Maurice,  in  a  hesitating  manner, 
"were  all  the  family  well?" 

"Yes." 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

"Ah!"  said  the  artist,  in  a  strange  voice,  and  he  re- 
sumed his  silent  promenade. 

Amedee  always  had  a  slightly  unpleasant  sensation 
when  Maurice  spoke  the  name  of  the  Gerards,  but  this 
time  the  suspicious  look  and  singular  tone  of  the  young 
painter,  as  he  inquired  about  them,  made  the  poet  feel 
genuinely  uneasy.  He  was  impressed,  above  all,  by 
Maurice's  simple  exclamation,  "Ah!"  which  seemed  to 
him  to  be  enigmatical  and  mysterious.  But  nonsense! 
all  this  was  foolish;  his  friend's  questions  were  per- 
fectly natural. 

"Shall  we  pass  the  evening  together,  my  dear 
Maurice?" 

"It  is  impossible  this  evening,"  replied  Maurice, 
still  continuing  his  walk.  "A  duty — I  have  an  en- 
gagement." 

Amedee  had  the  feeling  that  he  had  come  at  an  un- 
fortunate time,  and  discreetly  took  his  departure. 
Maurice  had  seemed  indifferent  and  less  cordial  than 
usual. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  him?"  said  the  poet  to 
himself  several  times,  while  dining  in  the  little  restau- 
rant in  the  Latin  Quarter.  He  afterward  went  to  the 
Comedie  Francaise,  to  kill  time,  as  well  as  to  inquire 
after  his  drama  of  Jocquelet,  who  played  that  evening 
in  Le  Legataire  Universel. 

The  comedian  received  him  in  his  dressing-room, 
being  already  arrayed  in  Crispin's  long  boots  and 
black  trousers.  He  was  seated  in  his  shirt-sleeves  be- 
fore his  toilet-table,  and  had  just  pasted  over  his  smooth 
lips  the  bristling  moustache  of  this  traditional  person- 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

age.  Without  rising,  or  even  saying  "Good-day,"  he 
cried  out  to  the  poet  as  he  recognized  him  in  the 
mirror: 

"No  news  as  to  your  piece!  The  manager  has  not 
one  moment  to  himself;  we  are  getting  ready  for  the 
revival  of  Camaraderie.  But  we  shall  be  through  with 
it  in  two  days,  and  then " 

And  immediately,  talking  to  hear  himself  talk,  and 
to  exercise  his  terrible  organ,  he  belched  out,  like  the 
noise  from  an  opened  dam,  a  torrent  of  commonplace 
things.  He  praised  Scribe's  works,  which  they  had 
put  on  the  stage  again;  he  announced  that  the  famous 
Guillery,  his  senior  in  the  comedy  line,  would  be  ex- 
ecrable in  this  performance,  and  would  make  a  bungle 
of  it.  He  complained  of  being  worried  to  death  by 
the  pursuit  of  a  great  lady — "You  know,  stage  box 
Number  Six,"  and  showed,  with  a  conceited  gesture, 
a  letter,  tossed  in  among  the  jars  of  paint  and  pomade, 
which  smelled  of  musk.  Then,  ascending  to  subjects 
of  a  more  elevated  order,  he  scored  the  politics  of  the 
Tuileries,  and  scornfully  exposed  the  imperial  corrup- 
tion while  recognizing  that  this  "poor  Badingue,"  who, 
three  days  before,  had  paid  a  little  compliment  to  the 
actor,  was  of  more  account  than  his  surroundings. 

The  poet  went  home  and  retired,  bewildered  by  such 
gossip.  When  he  awoke,  the  agony  of  his  thoughts 
about  Maria  had  become  still  more  painful.  When 
should  he  see  Louise  again?  Would  her  reply  be 
favorable?  In  spite  of  the  fine  autumn  morning  his 
heart  was  troubled,  and  he  felt  that  he  had  no  courage. 
His  administrative  work  had  never  seemed  more  loath- 

[180] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

some  than  on  that  day.  His  fellow-clerk,  an  amateur 
in  hunting,  had  just  had  two  days'  absence,  and  in- 
flicted upon  him,  in  an  unmerciful  manner,  his  stories 
of  slaughtered  partridges,  and  dogs  who  pointed  so 
wonderfully  well,  and  of  course  punctuated  all  this 
with  numerous  Pan-Pans!  to  imitate  the  report  of  a 
double-barrelled  gun. 

When  he  left  the  office  Amedee  regained  his  serenity 
a  little;  he  returned  home  by  the  quays,  hunting  after 
old  books  and  enjoying  the  pleasures  of  a  beautiful 
evening,  watching,  in  the  golden  sky,  around  the  spires 
of  Ste.-Chapelle,  a  large  flock  of  swallows  assembling 
for  their  approaching  departure. 

At  nightfall,  after  dining,  he  resolved  to  baffle  his 
impatience  by  working  all  the  evening  and  retouching 
one  act  of  his  drama  with  which  he  was  not  perfectly 
content.  He  went  to  his  room,  lighted  his  lamp,  and 
seated  himself  before  his  open  manuscript.  Now, 
then !  to  work !  He  had  been  silly  ever  since  the  night 
before.  Why  should  he  imagine  that  misfortune  was 
in  the  air  ?  Do  such  things  as  presentiments  exist  ? 

Suddenly,  three  light,  but  hasty  and  sharp  knocks 
were  struck  upon  his  door.  Amedee  arose,  took  his 
lamp,  and  opened  it.  He  jumped  back — there  stood 
Louise  Gerard  in  her  deep  mourning! 

"You? — At  my  rooms? — At  this  hour? — What  has 
happened?" 

She  entered  and  dropped  into  the  poet's  armchair. 
While  he  put  the  lamp  upon  the  table  he  noticed  that 
the  young  girl  was  as  white  as  wax.  Then  she  seized 
his  hands  and  pressing  them  with  all  her  strength,  she 

[181] 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

said,  in  a  voice  unlike  her  own — a  voice  hoarse  with 
despair: 

"Ame'de'e.  I  come  to  you  by  instinct,  as  toward  our 
only  friend,  as  to  a  brother,  as  to  the  only  man  who  will 
be  able  to  help  us  repair  the  frightful  misfortune  which 
overwhelms  us!"  She  stopped,  stifled  with  emotion. 

"A  misfortune!"  exclaimed  the  young  man.  "What 
misfortune  ?  Maria  ? ' ' 

"Yes!  Maria!" 

"An  accident? — An  illness?" 

Louise  made  a  rapid  gesture  with  her  arm  and  head 
which  signified:  "If  it  were  only  that!"  With  her 
mouth .  distorted  by  a  bitter  smile  and  with  lowered 
eyes,  talking  confusedly,  she  said: 

"  Monsieur  Maurice  Roger — yes — your  friend  Mau- 
rice! A  miserable  wretch!  —  he  has  deceived  and 
ruined  the  unhappy  child!  Oh!  what  infamy! — and 
now — now ' ' 

Her  deathly  pale  face  flushed  and  became  purple  to 
the  roots  of  her  hah*. 

"Now  Maria  will  become  a  mother!" 

At  these  words  the  poet  gave  a  cry  like  some  enraged 
beast;  he  reeled,  and  would  have  fallen  had  the  table 
not  been  near.  He  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  it,  sup- 
porting himself  with  his  hands,  completely  frozen  as 
if  from  a  great  chill.  Louise,  overcome  with  shame, 
sat  in  the  armchair,  hiding  her  face  in  her  hands  while 
great  tears  rolled  down  between  the  fingers  of  her 
ragged  gloves. 


[182] 


CHAPTER  XIV 

TOO  LATE! 

T  had  been  more  than  three  months 
since  Maria  and  Maurice  had  met 
again.     One  day  the  young  man  went 
to  the  Louvre  to  see  his  favorite  pict- 
ures of  the  painters  of  the  Eighteenth 
Century.    His  attention  was  attracted 
by  the  beautiful  hair  of  a  young  artist 
dressed  in  black,  who  was   copying 
one  of  Rosalba's  portraits.    It  was  our  pretty  pastel 
artist  whose  wonderful  locks  disturbed  all  the  daub- 
ers in  the  museum,  and  which  made  colorists  out  of 
Signol's  pupils  themselves.    Maurice  approached  the 
copyist,  and  then  both  exclaimed  at  once: 
"Mademoiselle  Maria!" 
"Monsieur  Maurice!" 

She  had  recognized  him  so  quickly  and  with  such  a 
charming  smile,  she  had  not,  then,  forgotten  him? 
When  he  used  to  visit  Pere  Gerard  he  had  noticed 
that  she  was  not  displeased  with  him;  but  after  such 
a  long  time,  at  first  sight,  to  obtain  such  a  greeting, 
such  a  delighted  exclamation — it  was  flattering! 

The  young  man  standing  by  her  easel,  with  his  hat 
off,  so  graceful  and  elegant  in  his  well-cut  garments, 
began  to  talk  with  her.  He  spoke  first,  in  becoming 

[183] 


FRANCOIS  COPPtiE 

and  proper  terms,  of  her  father's  death;  inquired  for 
her  mother  and  sister,  congratulated  himself  upon 
having  been  recognized  thus,  and  then  yielding  to  his 
bold  custom,  he  added : 

"As  to  myself,  I  hesitated  at  first.  You  have  grown 
still  more  beautiful  in  two  years." 

As  she  blushed,  he  continued,  in  a  joking  way, 
which  excused  his  audacity: 

"Amedee  told  me  that  you  had  become  delicious, 
but  now  I  hardly  dare  ask  him  for  news  of  you.  Ever 
since  you  have  lived  at  Montmartre — and  I  know  that 
he  sees  you  every  Sunday — he  has  never  offered  to  take 
me  with  him  to  pay  my  respects.  Upon  my  word  of 
honor,  Mademoiselle  Maria,  I  believe  that  he  is  in 
love  with  you  and  as  jealous  as  a  Turk." 

She  protested  against  it,  confused  but  still  smiling. 

Ah!  if  he  had  known  of  the  dream  that  Maria  had 
kept  concealed  in  one  corner  of  her  heart  ever  since 
their  first  meeting.  If  he  had  known  that  her  only 
desire  was  to  be  chosen  and  loved  by  this  handsome 
Maurice,  who  had  gone  through  their  house  and 
among  poor  Papa  Gerard's  bric-a-brac  like  a  meteor! 
Why  not,  after  all?  Did  she  not  possess  that  great 
power,  beauty?  Her  father,  her  mother,  and  even 
her  sister,  the  wise  Louise,  had  often  said  so  to  her. 
Yes!  from  the  very  first  she  had  been  charmed  by  this 
young  man  with  the  golden  moustache,  and  the  ways 
of  a  young  lord;  she  had  hoped  to  please  him,  and 
later,  in  spite  of  poverty  and  death,  she  had  continued 
to  be  intoxicated  with  this  folly  and  to  dream  of  this 
narcotic  against  grief,  of  the  return  of  this  Prince 

[184] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

Charming.  Poor  Maria,  so  good  and  so  artless,  who 
had  been  told  too  many  times  that  she  was  pretty! 
Poor  little  spoiled  child! 

When  he  left  you  yesterday,  little  Maria,  after  half 
an  hour's  pleasing  conversation,  Maurice  said  to  you 
jokingly:  "Do  not  tell  Violette,  above  all,  that  we 
have  met.  I  should  lose  my  best  friend."  You  not 
only  said  nothing  to  Amedee,  but  you  told  neither 
your  mother  nor  your  sister.  For  Louise  and  Ma- 
dame Gerard  are  prudent  and  wise,  and  they  would 
tell  you  to  avoid  this  rash  fellow  who  has  accosted 
you  in  a  public  place,  and  has  told  you  at  once  that 
you  are  beautiful  and  beloved.  They  would  scold 
you ;  they  would  tell  you  that  this  young  man  is  of  a 
rich  and  distinguished  family;  that  his  mother  has 
great  ambitions  for  him;  that  you  have  only  your  old 
black  dress  and  beautiful  eyes,  and  to-morrow,  when 
you  return  to  the  Louvre,  Madame  Gerard  will  estab- 
lish herself  near  your  easel  and  discourage  the  young 
gallant. 

But,  little  Maria,  you  conceal  it  from  your  mother 
and  Louise!  You  have  a  secret  from  your  family! 
To-morrow  when  you  make  your  toilette  before  the 
mirror  and  twist  up  your  golden  hair,  your  heart  will 
beat  with  hope  and  vanity.  In  the  Louvre  your  at- 
tention will  be  distracted  from  your  work  when  you 
hear  a  man's  step  resound  in  a  neighboring  gallery, 
and  when  Maurice  arrives  you  will  doubtless  be  troub- 
led, but  very  much  surprised  and  not  displeased, 
ah!  only  too  much  pleased.  Little  Maria,  little  Ma- 
ria, he  talks  to  you  in  a  low  tone  now.  His  blond 

[185] 


FRANCOIS  COPPfiE 

moustache  is  very  near  your  cheek,  and  you  do  well 
to  lower  your  eyes,  for  I  see  a  gleam  of  pleasure 
under  your  long  lashes.  I  do  not  hear  what  he  says, 
nor  your  replies ;  but  how  fast  he  works,  how  he  gains 
your  confidence!  You  will  compromise  yourself,  lit- 
tle Maria,  if  you  keep  him  too  long  by  your  easel. 
Four  o'clock  will  soon  strike,  and  the  watchman  in 
the  green  coat,  who  is  snoozing  before  Watteau's  de- 
signs, will  arouse  from  his  torpor,  stretch  his  arms, 
look  at  his  watch,  get  up  from  his  seat,  and  call  out 
"Time  to  close."  Why  do  you  allow  Maurice  to  help 
you  arrange  your  things,  to  accompany  you  through 
the  galleries,  carrying  your  box  of  pastels  ?  The  long, 
lanky  girl  in  the  Salon  Carre,  who  affects  the  English 
ways,  the  one  who  will  never  finish  copying  the  "  Vierge 
au  coussin  vert,"  has  followed  you  into  the  Louvre 
court.  Take  care!  She  has  noticed,  envious  creat- 
ure, that  you  are  very  much  moved  as  you  take  leave 
of  your  companion,  and  that  you  let  your  hand  remain 
for  a  second  in  his!  This  old  maid  a  Vanglaise  has 
a  viper's  tongue.  To-morrow  you  will  be  the  talk  of 
the  Louvre,  and  the  gossip  will  spread  to  the  Ecole 
des  Beaux-Arts,  even  to  Signol's  studio,  where  the 
two  daubers,  your  respectful  admirers,  who  think  of 
cutting  their  throats  in  your  honor,  will  accost  each 
other  with  a  "Well,  the  pretty  pastellist!  Yes,  I  know, 
she  has  a  lover. " 

If  it  was  only  a  lover!  But  the  pretty  pastellist 
has  been  very  careless,  more  foolish  than  the  old  maid 
or  the  two  young  fellows  dream  of.  It  is  so  sweet  to 
hear  him  say:  "I  love  you!"  and  so  delicious  to  lis- 

[186] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

ten  for  the  question:  "And  you,  do  you  love  me  a 
little?"  when  she  is  dying  to  say,  "Yes!"  Bending 
her  head  and  blushing  with  confusion  under  Maurice's 
ardent  gaze,  the  pretty  Maria  ends  by  murmuring  the 
fatal  "Yes."  Then  she  sees  Maurice  turn  pale  with 
joy,  and  he  says  to  her,  "I  must  talk  to  you  alone; 
not  before  these  bores."  She  replies:  "But  how? 
It  is  impossible!"  Then  he  asks  whether  she  does 
not  trust  him,  whether  she  does  not  believe  him  to  be 
an  honest  man,  and  the  young  girl's  looks  say  more 
than  any  protestation  would. 

"Well!  to-morrow  morning  at  ten  o'clock — instead 
of  coming  to  the  Louvre — will  you?  I  will  wait  for 
you  on  the  Quai  d'Orsay,  before  the  Saint-Cloud 
pier." 

She  was  there  at  the  appointed  hour,  overwhelmed 
with  emotion  and  ready  to  faint.  He  took  her  by  the 
arm  and  led  her  aboard  the  boat. 

"Do  you  see,  now  we  are  almost  alone.  Give  me 
the  pleasure  of  wandering  through  the  fields  with  you. 
It  is  such  beautiful  weather.  Be  tranquil,  we  shall 
return  early." 

Oh,  the  happy  day!  Maria  sees  pass  before  her, 
as  she  is  seated  beside  Maurice,  who  is  whispering 
in  her  ear  loving  words  and  whose  glances  cover  her 
with  caresses,  as  if  in  a  dream,  views  of  Paris  that 
were  not  familiar  to  her,  high  walls,  arches  of  bridges, 
then  the  bare  suburbs,  the  smoking  manufactories  of 
Crenelle,  the  Bas  Meudon,  with  its  boats  and  public- 
houses.  At  last,  on  the  borders  of  the  stream,  the 
park  with  its  extensive  verdure  appeared. 

[187] 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

They  wandered  there  for  a  long  time  under  the 
chestnut  -  trees,  loaded  with  their  fruit  in  its  green 
shells.  The  sun,  filtering  through  the  foliage,  dotted 
the  walks  with  patches  of  light,  and  Maurice  con- 
tinued to  repeat  to  Maria  that  he  loved  her;  that  he 
had  never  loved  any  one  but  her!  that  he  had  loved 
her  from  the  very  first  time  that  he  saw  her  at  Pere 
Gerard's,  and  that  neither  time  nor  absence  had  been 
able  to  drive  away  the  remembrance  of  her.  And  at 
this  moment  he  imagined  that  it  was  true.  He  did 
not  think  that  he  was  telling  a  lie.  As  to  poor  Maria, 
do  not  be  too  severe  upon  her!  think  of  her  youth, 
her  poverty  and  imprisonment — she  was  overwhelmed 
with  happiness.  She  could  think  of  nothing  to  say, 
and,  giving  herself  up  into  the  young  man's  arms, 
she  had  hardly  the  strength  to  turn  upon  him,  from 
time  to  time,  her  eyes  tortured  with  love. 

Is  it  necessary  to  tell  how  she  succumbed  ?  how  they 
went  to  a  restaurant  and  dined?  Emotion,  the  heavy 
heat  of  the  afternoon,  champagne,  that  golden  wine 
that  she  tasted  for  the  first  time,  stunned  the  impru- 
dent child.  Her  charming  head  slips  down  upon  the 
sofa-pillow,  she  is  nearly  fainting. 

"You  are  too  warm,"  said  Maurice.  "This  bright 
light  makes  you  ill." 

He  draws  the  curtains;  they  are  in  the  darkness, 
and  he  takes  the  young  girl  in  his  arms,  covering  her 
hands,  eyes,  and  lips  with  kisses 

Doubtless  he  swears  to  her  that  she  shall  be  his  wife. 
He  asks  only  a  little  time,  a  few  weeks,  in  which  to 
prepare  his  mother,  the  ambitious  Madame  Roger, 

[188] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

for  his  unexpected  marriage.  Maria  never  doubts  him, 
but  overcome  by  her  fault,  she  feels  an  intense  shame, 
and  buries  her  face  on  her  lover's  shoulder.  She 
thinks  then,  the  guilty  girl,  of  her  past;  of  her  inno- 
cence and  poverty,  of  her  humble  but  honest  home; 
her  dead  father,  her  mother  and  sister — her  two 
mothers,  properly  speaking — who  yet  call  her  "little 
one"  and  always  consider  her  as  a  child,  an  infant 
in  all  its  purity.  She  feels  impressed  with  her  sin, 
and  wishes  that  she  might  die  there  at  once. 

Oh!  I  beg  of  you,  be  charitable  to  the  poor,  weak 
Maria,  for  she  is  young  and  she  must  suffer! 

Maurice  was  not  a  rascal,  after  all;  he  was  in 
earnest  when  he  promised  to  marry  her  without  delay. 
He  even  meant  to  admit  all  to  his  mother  the  next 
day;  but  when  he  saw  her  she  never  had  appeared  so 
imposing  to  him,  with  her  gray  hair  under  her  widow's 
cap.  He  shivered  as  he  thought  of  the  tearful  scenes, 
the  reproaches  and  anger,  and  in  his  indolence  he  said 
to  himself :  "Upon  my  honor,  I  will  do  it  later!"  He 
loves  Maria  after  his  fashion.  He  is  faithful  to  her, 
and  when  she  steals  away  an  hour  from  her  work  to 
come  to  see  him,  he  is  uneasy  at  the  least  delay.  She 
is  truly  adorable,  only  Maurice  does  not  like  the  un- 
happy look  that  she  wears  when  she  asks  him,  in  a  trem- 
bling voice:  "Have  you  spoken  to  your  mother?"  He 
embraces  her,  reassures  her.  "Be  easy.  Leave  me 
time  to  arrange  it."  The  truth  is,  that  now  he  begins 
to  be  perplexed  at  the  idea  of  this  marriage.  It  is  his 
duty,  he  knows  that  very  well;  but  he  is  not  twenty- 
three  years  old  yet.  There  is  no  hurry.  After  all,  is 

[189] 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

it  duty?  the  little  one  yielded  easily  enough.  Has  he 
not  the  right  to  test  her  and  wait  a  little  ?  It  is  what 
his  mother  would  advise  him,  he  is  certain.  That  is 
the  only  reasonable  way  to  look  at  it. 

Alas,  egotists  and  cowards  always  have  a  reason  for 
everything ! 

How  dearly  poor  Maria's  foolish  step  has  cost  her! 
How  heavily  such  a  secret  weighs  upon  the  child's 
heart!  For  a  few  moments  of  uneasy  intoxication 
with  this  man,  whom  she  already  doubts  and  who  some- 
times makes  her  afraid,  she  must  lie  to  her  mother 
without  blushing  or  lowering  her  eyes,  and  enter  Mau- 
rice's house  veiled  and  hiding  like  a  thief.  But  that 
is  nothing  yet.  After  some  time  of  this  agonizing  life 
her  health  is  troubled.  Quickly  she  goes  to  find  Mau- 
rice! She  arrives  unexpectedly  and  finds  him  lying 
upon  the  sofa  smoking  a  cigar.  Without  giving  him 
time  to  rise,  she  throws  herself  into  his  arms,  and, 
bursting  into  sobs,  makes  her  terrible  avowal.  At 
first  he  only  gives  a  start  of  angry  astonishment,  a 
harsh  glance. 

"Bah!  you  must  be  mistaken." 
"I  am  sure  of  it,  I  tell  you,  I  am  sure  of  it!" 
She  has  caught  his  angry  glance  and  feels  condemned 
in  advance.     However,  he  gives  her  a  cold  kiss,  and 
it  is  with  a  great  effort  that  she  stammers: 
"Maurice — you  must — speak  to  your  mother- 
He  rises  with  an  impatient  gesture  and  Maria  seats 
herself — her  strength  is  leaving  her — while  he  walks 
up  and  down  the  room. 

"My  poor  Maria,"  he  begins  in  a  hesitating  man- 
[190] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

ner,  "I  dared  not  tell  you,  but  my  mother  will  not 
consent  to  our  marriage — now,  at  least." 

He  lies!  He  has  not  spoken  to  his  mother;  she 
knows  it.  Ah!  unhappy  creature!  he  does  not  love  her! 
and,  discouraged,  with  a  rumbling  noise  in  her  ears, 
she  listens  to  Maurice  as  he  speaks  in  his  soft  voice. 

"Oh!  be  tranquil.  I  shall  not  abandon  you,  my 
poor  child.  If  what  you  say  is  true — if  you  are  sure 
of  it,  then  the  best  thing  that  you  can  do,  you  see,  is 
to  leave  your  family  and  come  and  live  with  me.  At 
first  we  will  go  away  from  Paris;  you  can  be  confined 
in  the  country.  We  can  put  the  child  out  to  nurse; 
they  will  take  care  of  the  little  brat,  of  course.  And 
later,  perhaps,  my  mother  will  soften  and  will  under- 
stand that  we  must  marry.  No,  truly,  the  more  I 
think  of  it,  the  more  I  believe  that  that  is  the  best  way 
to  do.  Yes!  I  know  very  well  it  will  be  hard  to  leave 
your  home,  but  what  can  you  do,  my  darling?  You 
can  write  your  mother  a  very  affectionate  letter." 

And  going  to  her  he  takes  her,  inert  and  heart- 
broken, into  his  arms,  and  tries  to  show  himself  loving. 

"You  are  my  wife,  my  dear  little  wife,  I  repeat  it. 
Are  you  not  glad,  eh!  that  we  can  live  together?" 

This  is  what  he  proposes  to  do.  He  thinks  to  take 
her  publicly  to  his  house  and  to  blazon  her  shame 
before  the  eyes  of  everybody!  Maria  feels  that  she 
is  lost.  She  rises  abruptly  and  says  to  him  in  the  tone 
of  a  somnambulist:  "That  will  do.  We  will  talk  of 
it  again." 

She  goes  away  and  returns  to  Montmartre  at  a 
crazy  woman's  pace,  and  finds  her  mother  knitting 

[191] 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

and  her  sister  ready  to  lay  the  table — yes!  as  if  nothing 
at  all  was  the  matter.  She  takes  their  hands  and 
falls  at  their  feet! 

Ah,  poor  women! 

They  had  already  been  very  much  tried.  The  de- 
cay of  this  worthy  family  was  lamentable;  but  in 
spite  of  all,  yesterday  even,  they  endured  their  fate 
with  resignation.  Yes!  the  economy,  the  degrading 
drudgery,  the  old,  mended  gowns — they  accepted  all 
this  without  a  murmur.  A  noble  sentiment  sustained 
and  gave  them  courage.  All  three — the  old  mother 
in  a  linen  cap  doing  the  cooking  and  the  washing,  the 
elder  sister  giving  lessons  at  forty  sous,  and  the  little 
one  working  in  pastels — were  vaguely  conscious  of 
representing  something  very  humble,  but  sacred  and 
noble — a  family  without  a  blemish  on  their  name. 
They  felt  that  they  moved  in  an  atmosphere  of  esteem 
and  respect.  "Those  ladies  upon  the  first  floor  have 
so  many  accomplishments,"  say  the  neighbors.  Their 
apartment — with  its  stained  woodwork,  its  torn  wall- 
paper, but  where  they  were  all  united  in  work  and 
drawn  closer  and  closer  to  each  other  in  love — had 
still  the  sweetness  of  a  home;  and  upon  their  ragged 
mourning,  their  dilapidated  furniture,  the  meagre  meat 
soup  at  night,  the  pure  light  of  honor  gleamed  and 
watched  over  them.  Now,  after  this  guilty  child's 
avowal,  all  this  was  ended,  lost  forever!  There  was 
a  blemish  upon  their  life  of  duty  and  poverty,  upon 
their  irreproachable  past,  even  upon  the  father's  mem- 
ory. Certainly  the  mother  and  elder  sister  excused 
the  poor  creature  who  sol  bed  under  their  kisses  and 

[192] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

begged  their  pardon.  However,  when  they  gazed  at 
each  other  with  red  eyes  and  dry  lips,  they  measured 
the  fall  of  the  family;  they  saw  for  the  first  time  how 
frightful  were  their  destitution  and  distress;  they  felt 
the  unbearable  feeling  of  shame  glide  into  their  hearts 
like  a  sinister  and  unexpected  guest  who,  at  the  first 
glance,  makes  one  understand  that  he  has  come  to 
be  master  of  the  lodging.  This  was  the  secret,  the 
overwhelming  secret,  which  the  distracted  Louise  Ge*- 
rard  revealed  that  evening  to  her  only  friend,  Ame*- 
dee  Violette,  acting  thus  by  instinct,  as  a  woman  with 
too  heavy  a  burden  throws  it  to  the  ground,  crying 
for  help. 

When  she  had  ended  her  cruel  confidence,  to  which 
the  poet  listened  with  his  face  buried  in  his  hands, 
and  he  uncovered  his  face  creased  and  furrowed  by 
the  sudden  wrinkles  of  despair,  Louise  was  fright- 
ened. 

"How  I  have  wounded  him!"  she  thought.  "How 
he  loves  Maria!" 

But  she  saw  shining  in  the  young  man's  eyes  a 
gloomy  resolution. 

"Very  well,  Louise,"  muttered  he,  between  his 
teeth.  "Do  not  tell  me  any  more,  I  beg  of  you.  I 
do  not  know  where  to  find  Maurice  at  this  hour,  but 
he  will  see  me  to-morrow  morning,  rest  easy.  If  the 
evil  is  not  repaired — and  at  once " 

He  did  not  finish;  his  voice  was  stifled  with  grief 
and  rage,  and  upon  an  almost  imperious  gesture  to 
leave,  Louise  departed,  overcome  by  her  undertaking. 

No,  Maurice  Roger  was  not  a  villain.  After  Maria's 
!3  [  193  ] 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

departure  he  felt  ashamed  and  displeased  with  him- 
self. A  mother!  poor  little  thing!  Certainly  he  would 
take  charge  of  her  and  the  child;  he  would  behave 
like  a  gentleman.  But,  to  speak  plainly,  he  did  not 
now  love  her  as  much  as  he  did.  His  vagabond  nature 
was  already  tired  of  his  love-affair.  This  one  was 
watered  too  much  by  tears.  Bah!  he  was  usually 
lucky,  and  this  troublesome  affair  would  come  out  all 
right  like  the  others.  Truly,  it  was  as  bad  an  acci- 
dent as  if  one  had  fallen  into  a  hole  and  broken  his 
leg.  But  then,  who  could  tell?  Chance  and  time 
arrange  many  things.  The  child  might  not  live,  per- 
haps; at  any  rate,  it  was  perfectly  natural  that  he 
should  wait  and  see  what  happened. 

The  next  morning  the  reckless  Maurice — who  had 
not  slept  badly — was  tranquilly  preparing  his  palette 
while  awaiting  his  model,  when  he  saw  Amedee  Vio- 
lette  enter  his  studio.  At  the  first  glance  he  saw  that 
the  poet  knew  all. 

"Maurice,"  said  Amedee,  in  a  freezing  tone,  "I 
received  a  visit  from  Mademoiselle  Louise  Gerard 
last  evening.  She  told  me  everything — all,  do  you 
understand  me  perfectly?  I  have  come  to  learn 
whether  I  am  mistaken  regarding  you — whether  Mau- 
rice Roger  is  an  honest  man." 

A  flame  darted  from  the  young  artist's  eyes.  Ame- 
dee, with  his  livid  complexion  and  haggard  from  a 
sleepless  night  and  tears,  was  pitiful  to  see.  And  then 
it  was  Amedee,  little  Amedee  whom  Maurice  sincerely 
loved,  for  whom  he  had  kept,  ever  since  their  college 
days,  a  sentiment,  all  the  more  precious  that  it  flat- 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

tered  his  vanity,  the  indulgent  affection  and  protection 
of  a  superior. 

"Oh!  Grand,  melodramatic  words  already!"  said 
he,  placing  his  palette  upon  the  table.  "Amedee,  my 
dear  boy,  I  do  not  recognize  you,  and  if  you  have  any 
explanation  that  you  wish  to  ask  of  your  old  friend, 
it  is  not  thus  that  you  should  do  it.  You  have  re- 
ceived, you  tell  me,  Mademoiselle  Gerard's  confidence. 
I  know  you  are  devoted  to  those  ladies.  I  understand 
your  emotion  and  I  think  your  intervention  legiti- 
mate; but  you  see  I  speak  calmly  and  in  a  friendly 
way.  Calm  yourself  in  your  turn  and  do  not  forget 
that,  in  spite  of  your  zeal  for  those  ladies,  I  am  the 
best  and  dearest  companion  of  your  youth.  I  am,  I 
know,  in  one  of  the  gravest  situations  of  my  life.  Let 
us  talk  of  it.  Advise  me;  you  have  the  right  to  do  so; 
but  not  in  that  tone  of  voice — that  angry,  threatening 
tone  which  I  pardon,  but  which  hurts  and  makes  me 
doubt,  were  it  possible,  your  love  for  me." 

"Ah!  you  know  very  well  that  I  love  you,"  replied 
the  unhappy  Amedee,  "but  why  do  you  need  my  ad- 
vice? You  are  frank  enough  to  deny  nothing.  You 
admit  that  it  is  true,  that  you  have  seduced  a  young 
girl.  Does  not  your  conscience  tell  you  what  to  do?" 

"To  marry  her?  That  is  my  intention.  But,  Ame"- 
de"e,  do  you  think  of  my  mother?  This  marriage  will 
distress  her,  destroy  her  fond  hopes  and  ambitions. 
I  hope  to  be  able  to  gain  her  consent;  only  I  must 
have  time  to  turn  myself.  Later — very  soon.  I  do 
not  say — if  the  child  lives." 

This  word,  torn  from  Maurice  by  the,  cynicism 
[i95] 


FRANCOIS  COPPfiE 

which  is  in  the  heart  of  all  egotists,  made  Ame'de'e 
angry. 

"Your  mother!"  exclaimed  he.  "Your  mother  is 
the  widow  of  a  French  officer  who  died  facing  the 
enemy.  She  will  understand  it,  I  am  sure,  as  a  mat- 
ter of  honor  and  duty.  Go  and  find  her,  tell  her  that 
you  have  ruined  this  unfortunate  child.  Your  mother 
will  advise  you  to  marry  her.  She  will  command  you 
to  do  it." 

This  argument  was  forcible  and  direct,  and  im- 
pressed Maurice;  but  his  friend's  violence  irritated 
him. 

"You  go  to  work  badly,  Amedee,  I  repeat  it,"  said 
he,  raising  his  tone.  "You  have  no  right  to  prejudge 
my  mother's  opinion,  and  I  receive  no  orders  from 
anybody.  After  all,  nothing  authorizes  you  to  do  it ; 
if  it  is  because  you  were  in  love  with  Maria — 

A  furious  cry  interrupted  him.  Amedee,  with  wild 
eyes  and  shaking  his  fists,  walked  toward  Maurice, 
speaking  in  a  cutting  tone: 

"Well,  yes!  I  loved  her,"  said  he,  "and  I  wished 
to  make  her  my  wife.  You,  who  no  longer  love  her, 
who  took  her  out  of  caprice,  as  you  have  taken  others, 
you  have  destroyed  all  of  my  dreams  for  the  future. 
She  preferred  you,  and,  understand  me,  Maurice,  I 
am  too  proud  to  complain,  too  just  to  hold  spite 
against  you.  I  am  only  here  to  prevent  your  com- 
mitting an  infamy.  Upon  my  honor!  If  you  repulse 
me,  our  friendship  is  destroyed  forever,  and  I  dare 
not  think  of  what  will  happen  between  us,  but  it  will 
be  terrible!  Alas!  I  am  wrong,  I  do  not  talk  to  you 

[196] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

as  I  ought.  Maurice,  there  is  time  yet!  Only  listen 
to  your  heart,  which  I  know  is  generous  and  good. 
You  have  wronged  an  innocent  child  and  driven  a 
poor  and  worthy  family  to  despair.  You  can  repair 
the  evil  you  have  caused.  You  wish  to.  You  will! 
I  beg  of  you,  do  it  out  of  respect  for  yourself  and  the 
name  you  bear.  Act  like  a  brave  man  and  a  gentle- 
man! Give  this  young  girl — whose  only  wrong  has 
been  in  loving  you  too  much — give  the  mother  of  your 
child  your  name,  your  heart,  your  love.  You  will  be 
happy  with  her  and  through  her.  Go!  I  shall  not 
be  jealous  of  your  happiness,  but  only  too  glad  to  have 
found  my  friend,  my  loyal  Maurice  once  more,  and  to 
be  able  still  to  love  and  admire  him  as  heretofore." 

Stirred  by  these  warm  words,  and  fatigued  by  the 
discussion  and  struggle,  the  painter  reached  out  his 
hands  to  his  friend,  who  pressed  them  in  his.  Sud- 
denly he  looked  at  Amedee  and  saw  his  eyes  shining 
with  tears,  and,  partly  from  sorrow,  but  more  from 
want  of  will  and  from  moral  weakness,  to  end  it  he 
exclaimed : 

"You  are  right,  after  all.  We  will  arrange  this 
matter  without  delay.  What  do  you  wish  me  to  do?" 

Ah,  how  Amedee  bounded  upon  his  neck! 

"My  good,  my  dear  Maurice!  Quickly  dress  your- 
self. Let  us  go  to  those  ladies  and  embrace  and  con- 
sole that  dear  child.  Ah!  I  knew  very  well  that  you 
would  understand  me  and  that  your  heart  was  in  the 
right  place.  How  happy  the  poor  women  will  be! 
Now  then,  my  old  friend,  is  it  not  good  to  do  one's 
duty?" 

[i97] 


FRANCOIS  COPPfiE 

Yes,  Maurice  found  that  it  was  good  now;  excited 
and  carried  away  by  his  friend,  he  hurried  toward  the 
good  action  that  was  pointed  out  to  him  as  he  would 
to  a  pleasure-party,  and  while  putting  on  his  coat  to 
go  out,  he  said: 

"After  all,  my  mother  can  only  approve,  and  since 
she  always  does  as  I  wish,  she  will  end  by  adoring  my 
little  Maria.  It  is  all  right;  there  is  no  way  of  resist- 
ing you,  Violette.  You  are  a  good  and  persuasive 
Violette.  Now,  then,  here  I  am,  ready — a  handker- 
chief— my  hat.  Off  we  go!" 

They  went  out  and  took  a  cab  which  carried  them 
toward  Montmartre.  The  easy-going  Maurice,  re- 
conciled to  his  future,  sketched  out  his  plan  of  life. 
Once  married,  he  would  work  seriously.  At  first, 
immediately  after  the  ceremony,  he  would  leave  with 
his  wife  to  pass  the  winter  in  the  South,  where  she 
could  be  confined.  He  knew  a  pretty  place  in  the 
Corniche,  near  Antibes,  where  he  should  not  lose  his 
time,  as  he  could  bring  back  marine  and  landscape 
sketches.  But  it  would  not  be  until  the  next  winter 
that  he  would  entirely  arrange  his  life.  The  painter 
Laugeol  was  going  to  move;  he  would  hire  his  apart- 
ment— "a  superb  studio,  my  dear  fellow,  with  win- 
dows looking  out  upon  the  Luxembourg."  He  could 
see  himself  there  now,  working  hard,  having  a  suc- 
cessful picture  in  the  Salon,  wearing  a  medal.  He 
chose  even  the  hangings  in  the  sleeping-rooms  in  ad- 
vance. Then,  upon  beautiful  days,  how  convenient 
the  garden  would  be  for  the  child  and  the  nurse. 

Suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  this  chattering,  he  noticed 
[198] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

Amedee' s  sad  face  as  he  shrank  into  the  back  of  the 
carriage. 

"Forgive  me,  my  dear  friend,"  said  he,  taking  him 
affectionately  by  the  hand.  "I  forgot  what  you  told 
me  just  now.  Ah!  fate  is  ridiculous,  when  I  think 
that  my  happiness  makes  you  feel  badly." 

The  poet  gave  his  friend  a  long,  sad  look. 

"Be  happy  with  Maria  and  make  her  happy,  that 
is  all  I  ask  for  you  both." 

They  had  reached  the  foot  of  Montmartre,  and  the 
carriage  went  slowly  up  the  steep  streets. 

"My  friend,"  said  Amedee,  "we  shall  arrive  there 
soon.  You  will  go  in  alone  to  see  these  ladies,  will 
you  not?  Oh!  do  not  be  afraid.  I  know  Louise  and 
the  mother.  They  will  not  utter  one  word  of  reproach. 
Your  upright  act  will  be  appreciated  by  them  as  it 
merits — but  you  will  excuse  me  from  going  with  you, 
do  you  see?  It  would  be  too  painful  for  me." 

"Yes,  I  understand,  my  poor  Amedee.  As  it  pleases 
you.  Now  then,  courage,  you  will  be  cured  of  it. 
Everything  is  alleviated  in  time,"  replied  Maurice, 
who  supposed  everybody  to  have  his  fickle  nature. 
"I  shall  always  remember  the  service  that  you  have 
rendered  me,  for  I  blush  now  as  I  think  of  it.  Yes, 
I  was  going  to  do  a  villainous  act.  Amedee,  embrace 
me." 

They  threw  their  arms  about  each  other's  neck, 
and  the  carriage  stopped.  Once  on  the  sidewalk, 
Amedee  noticed  his  friend's  wry  face  as  he  saw  the 
home  of  the  Gerards,  a  miserable,  commonplace  lodg- 
ing-house, whose  crackled  plastered  front  made  one 


FRANCOIS  COPPtiE 

think  of  the  wrinkles  on  a  poor  man's  face.  On  the 
right  and  on  the  left  of  the  entrance-door  were  two 
shops,  one  a  butcher's,  the  other  a  fruiterer's,  exhaling 
their  fetid  odors.  But  Amedee  paid  no  attention  to 
the  delicate  Maurice's  repugnance,  saying: 

"Do  you  see  that  little  garden  at  the  end  of  the 
walk?  It  is  there.  Au  revoir." 

They  separated  with  a  last  grasp  of  the  hand.  The 
poet  saw  Maurice  enter  the  dark  alley,  cross  the  nar- 
row court  and  push  the  gate  open  into  the  garden, 
and  then  disappear  among  the  mass  of  verdure.  How 
many  times  Amedee  had  passed  through  there,  moved 
at  the  thought  that  he  was  going  to  see  Maria;  and 
Maurice  crossed  this  threshold  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life  to  take  her  away.  He  wanted  her!  He  had  him- 
self given  his  beloved  to  another!  He  had  begged, 
almost  forced  his  rival,  so  to  speak,  to  rob  him  of  his 
dearest  hope!  What  sorrow! 

Ame"dee  gave  his  address  to  the  driver  and  entered 
the  carriage  again.  A  cold  autumn  rain  had  com- 
menced to  fall,  and  he  was  obliged  to  close  the  win- 
dows. As  he  was  jolted  harshly  through  the  streets 
of  Paris  at  a  trot,  the  young  poet,  all  of  a  shiver,  saw 
carriages  streaming  with  water,  bespattered  pedes- 
trians under  their  umbrellas,  a  heavy  gloom  fall  from 
the  leaden  sky;  and  Amedee,  stupefied  with  grief,  felt 
a  strange  sensation  of  emptiness,  as  if  somebody  had 
taken  away  his  heart. 

When  he  entered  his  room,  the  sight  of  his  furniture, 
his  engravings,  his  books  on  their  shelves,  and  his 
table  covered  with  its  papers  distressed  him.  His 

[200] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

long  evenings  of  study  near  this  lamp,  the  long  hours 
of  thought  over  some  difficult  work,  the  austere  and 
cheerless  year  that  he  had  lived  there,  all  had  been 
dedicated  to  Maria.  It  was  in  order  to  obtain  her 
some  day,  that  he  had  labored  so  assiduously  and 
obstinately!  And  now  the  frivolous  and  guilty  child 
was  doubtless  weeping  for  joy  in  Maurice's  arms,  her 
husband  to-morrow? 

Seated  before  his  table,  with  his  head  buried  in  his 
hands,  Ame'dee  sank  into  the  depths  of  melancholy. 
His  life  seemed  such  a  failure,  his  fate  so  disastrous, 
his  future  so  gloomy,  he  felt  so  discouraged  and  lonely, 
that  for  the  moment  the  courage  to  live  deserted  him. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  an  invisible  hand  touched  him 
upon  the  shoulder  with  compassion,  and  he  had  at 
once  a  desire  and  a  fear  to  turn  around  and  look; 
for  he  knew  very  well  that  this  hand  was  that  of  the 
dead.  He  did  not  fancy  it  under  the  hideous  aspect 
of  a  skeleton,  but  as  a  calm,  sad,  but  yet  very  sweet 
face  which  drew  him  against  its  breast  with  a  mother's 
tenderness,  and  made  him  and  his  grief  sleep — a  sleep 
without  dreams,  profound  and  eternal.  Suddenly  he 
turned  around  and  uttered  a  frightful  cry.  For  a 
moment  he  thought  he  saw,  extended  at  his  feet,  and 
still  holding  a  razor  in  his  hand,  the  dead  body  of  his 
unhappy  father,  a  horrible  wound  in  his  throat,  and 
his  thin  gray  hair  in  a  pool  of  blood! 

He  was  still  trembling  with  this  frightful  halluci- 
nation when  somebody  knocked  at  his  door.  It  was 
the  concierge,  who  brought  him  two  letters. 

The  first  was  stamped  with  the  celebrated  name 
[201] 


FRANCOIS  COPPfeE 

"  Comedie  Francaise,  1680. "  The  manager  announced 
in  the  most  gracious  terms  that  he  had  read  with  the 
keenest  pleasure  his  drama  in  verse,  entitled  L' Atelier, 
and  he  hoped  that  the  reading  committee  would  accept 
this  work. 

"Too  late!"  thought  the  young  poet,  as  he  tore  open 
the  other  envelope. 

This  second  letter  bore  the  address  of  a  Paris  notary, 
and  informed  M.  Amedee  Violette  that  M.  Isidore 
Gaufre  had  died  without  leaving  a  will,  and  that,  as 
nephew  of  the  defunct,  he  would  receive  a  part  of  the 
estate,  still  difficult  to  appraise,  but  which  would  not 
be  less  than  two  hundred  and  fifty  or  three  hundred 
thousand  francs. 

Success  and  fortune!  Everything  came  at  once! 
Ame*dee  was  at  first  overwhelmed  with  surprise;  but 
with  all  these  unhoped-for  favors  of  fortune,  which 
did  not  give  him  the  power  to  repair  his  misfortune, 
the  noble  poet  deeply  realized  that  riches  and  glory 
were  not  equal  to  a  great  love  or  a  beautiful  dream, 
and,  completely  upset  by  the  irony  of  his  fate,  he 
broke  into  a  harsh  burst  of  laughter. 


[  202  ] 


CHAPTER  XV 

REPARATION 


late  M.  Violette  was  not  mistaken 
when  he  supposed  M.  Gaufre  capable 
of  disinheriting  his  family  in  favor 
of  his  servant-mistress,  but  Berenice 
was  wanting  in  patience.  The  rough 
beard  and  cap  of  an  irresistible  ser- 
geant-major were  the  ruin  of  the  girl. 
One  Sunday,  when  M.  Gaufre,  as 
usual,  recited  vespers  at  St.  Sulpice,  he  found  that  for 
the  first  time  in  his  life  he  had  forgotten  his  snuff-box. 
The  holy  offices  were  unbearable  to  this  hypocritical 
person  unless  frequently  broken  by  a  good  pinch  of 
snuff.  Instead  of  waiting  for  the  final  benediction  and 
then  going  to  take  his  usual  walk,  he  left  his  church- 
warden's stall  and  returned  unexpectedly  to  the  Rue 
Servandoni,  where  he  surprised  Berenice  in  a  loving 
interview  with  her  military  friend.  The  old  man's  rage 
was  pitiful  to  behold.  He  turned  the  Normandy 
beauty  ignominiously  out  of  doors,  tore  up  the  will 
he  had  made  in  her  favor,  and  died  some  weeks  after 
from  indigestion,  and  left,  in  spite  of  himself,  all  his 
fortune  to  his  natural  heirs. 

AmedeVs  drama  had  been  accepted  by  the  Come"die 
[203] 


FRANCOIS  COPPfiE 

Francaise,  but  was  not  to  be  brought  out  until  spring. 
The  notary  in  charge  of  his  uncle's  estate  had  advanced 
him  a  few  thousand  francs,  and,  feeling  sad  and  not 
having  the  courage  to  be  present  at  the  marriage  of 
Maurice  and  Maria,  the  poet  wished  at  least  to  enjoy, 
in  a  way,  his  new  fortune  and  the  independence  that 
it  gave  him;  so  he  resigned  his  position  and  left  for 
a  trip  to  Italy,  in  the  hope  of  dissipating  his  grief. 

Ah,  never  travel  when  the  heart  is  troubled!  You 
sleep  with  the  echo  of  a  dear  name  in  your  thoughts, 
and  the  half  sleep  of  nights  on  a  train  is  feverish  and 
full  of  nightmares.  Amedee  suffered  tortures  from  it. 
In  the  midst  of  the  continual  noise  of  the  cars  he 
thought  he  could  hear  sad  voices  crying  loudly  the 
name  of  a  beloved  lost  one.  Sometimes  the  tumult 
would  become  quiet  for  a  little;  brakes,  springs,  wheels, 
all  parts  of  the  furious  cast-iron  machine  seemed  to 
him  tired  of  howling  the  deafening  rhythmical  gallop, 
and  the  vigorously  rocked  traveller  could  distinguish 
in  the  diminished  uproar  a  strain  of  music,  at  first 
confused  like  a  groan,  then  more  distinct,  but  always 
the  same  cruel,  haunting  monotone — the  fragment  of 
a  song  that  Maria  once  sang  when  they  were  both 
children.  Suddenly  a  mournful  and  prolonged  whistle 
would  resound  through  the  night.  The  express  rushed 
madly  into  a  tunnel.  Under  the  sonorous  roof,  the 
frightful  concert  redoubled,  exasperating  him  among 
all  these  metallic  clamors;  but  Amedee  still  heard  a 
distant  sound  like  that  of  a  blacksmith's  hammer,  and 
each  heavy  blow  made  his  heart  bound  painfully. 

Ah!  never  travel,  and  above  all,  never  travel  alone, 
[204] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

if  your  heart  is  sad !  How  hostile  and  inhospitable  the 
first  sensation  is  that  one  feels  then  when  entering  an 
unknown  city!  Amedee  was  obliged  to  submit  to  the 
tiresome  delay  of  looking  after  his  baggage  in  a  com- 
monplace station;  the  hasty  packing  into  an  omnibus 
of  tired-out  travellers,  darting  glances  of  bad  humor 
and  suspicion;  to  the  reception  upon  the  hotel  steps 
by  the  inevitable  Swiss  porter  with  his  gold-banded 
cap,  murdering  all  the  European  languages,  greeting 
all  the  newcomers,  and  getting  mixed  in  his  "Yes, 
sir,"  "  Ja,  wohl,"  and  "Si,  signor."  Amedee  was  an 
inexperienced  tourist,  who  did  not  drag  along  with 
him  a  dozen  trunks,  and  had  not  a  rich  and  indolent 
air;  so  he  was  quickly  despatched  by  the  Swiss  poly- 
glot into  a  fourth-story  room,  which  looked  out  into 
an  open  well,  and  was  so  gloomy  that  while  he  washed 
his  hands  he  was  afraid  of  falling  ill  and  dying  there 
without  help.  A  notice  written  in  four  languages 
hung  upon  the  wall,  and,  to  add  to  his  cheerfulness, 
it  advised  him  to  leave  all  his  valuables  at  the  office 
of  the  hotel — as  if  he  had  penetrated  a  forest  infested 
with  brigands.  The  rigid  writing  warned  him  still 
further  that  they  looked  upon  him  as  a  probable 
sharper,  and  that  his  bill  would  be  presented  every 
five  days. 

The  tiresome  life  of  railroads  and  table-d'hotes  be- 
gan for  him. 

He  would  be  dragged  about  from  city  to  city,  like 
a  bag  of  wheat  or  a  cask  of  wine.  He  would  dwell  in 
pretentious  and  monumental  hotels,  where  he  would 
be  numbered  like  a  convict;  he  would  meet  the  same 

[205] 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

carnivorous  English  family,  with  whom  he  might  have 
made  a  tour  of  the  world  without  exchanging  one 
word;  swallowing  every  day  the  tasteless  soup,  old 
fish,  tough  vegetables,  and  insipid  wine  which  have 
an  international  reputation,  so  to  speak.  But  above 
all,  he  was  to  have  the  horror,  every  evening  upon 
going  to  his  room,  of  passing  through  those  uniform 
and  desolate  corridors,  faintly  lighted  by  gas,  where 
before  each  door  are  pairs  of  cosmopolitan  shoes — 
heavy  alpine  shoes,  filthy  German  boots,  the  conjugal 
boots  of  my  lord  and  my  lady,  which  make  one  think, 
by  their  size,  of  the  troglodyte  giants — awaiting,  with  a 
fatigued  air,  their  morning  polish. 

The  imprudent  Amedee  was  destined  to  all  sorts  of 
weariness,  all  sorts  of  deceptions,  and  all  the  home- 
sickness of  a  solitary  traveller.  At  the  sight  of  the 
famous  monuments  and  celebrated  sites,  which  have 
become  in  some  way  looked  upon  as  models  for  painters 
and  material  for  literary  development,  Amedee  felt 
that  sensation  of  "already  seen"  which  paralyzes  the 
faculty  of  admiration.  Dare  we  say  it?  The  dome 
in  Milan,  that  enormous  quiver  of  white  marble  ar- 
rows, did  not  move  him.  He  was  indifferent  to  the 
sublime  medley  of  bronze  in  the  Baptistery  in  Florence; 
and  the  leaning  tower  at  Pisa  produced  simply  the 
effect  of  mystification.  He  walked  miles  through  the 
museums  and  silent  galleries,  satiated  with  art  and 
glutted  with  masterpieces.  He  was  disgusted  to  find 
that  he  could  not  tolerate  a  dozen  "Adorations  of  the 
Shepherds,"  or  fourteen  "Descents  from  the  Cross," 
consecutively,  even  if  they  were  signed  with  the  most 

[206] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

glorious  names.  The  scenes  of  suffering  and  martyr- 
dom, so  many  times  repeated,  were  particularly  dis- 
tasteful to  him;  and  he  took  a  still  greater  dislike 
even  to  a  certain  monk,  always  represented  on  his 
knees  in  prayer  with  an  axe  sticking  in  his  tonsure, 
than  to  the  everlasting  St.  Sebastian  pierced  with 
arrows.  His  deadened  and  depraved  attention  dis- 
cerned only  the  disagreeable  and  ugly  side  of  a  work 
of  art.  In  the  adorable  artless  originals  he  could  see 
only  childish  and  barbarous  drawing,  and  he  thought 
the  old  colorists'  yolk-of-an-egg  tone  monotonous. 

He  wished  to  spur  his  sensations,  to  see  something 
extraordinary.  He  travelled  toward  Venice,  the  noise- 
less city,  the  city  without  birds  or  verdure,  toward 
that  silent  country  of  sky,  marble,  and  water;  but 
once  there,  the  reality  seemed  inferior  to  his  dream. 
He  had  not  that  shock  of  surprise  and  enthusiasm  in 
the  presence  of  St.  Mark's  and  the  Doges'  palace 
which  he  had  hoped  for.  He  had  read  too  many  de- 
scriptions of  all  these  wonders;  seen  too  many  more  or 
less  faithful  pictures,  and  in  his  disenchantment  he 
recalled  a  lamp-shade  which  once,  in  his  own  home, 
had  excited  his  childish  imagination — an  ugly  lamp- 
shade of  blue  pasteboard  upon  which  was  printed  a 
nocturnal  ftte,  the  illuminations  upon  the  ducal  palace 
being  represented  by  a  row  of  pin-pricks. 

Once  more  I  repeat  it,  never  travel  alone,  and  above 
all,  never  go  to  Venice  alone  and  without  love!  For 
young  married  people  in  their  honeymoon,  or  a  pair 
of  lovers,  the  gondola  is  a  floating  boudoir,  a  nest  upon 
the  waters  like  a  kingfisher's.  But  for  one  who  is  sad, 

[207] 


FRANCOIS  COPPfiE 

and  who  stretches  himself  upon  the  sombre  cushions 
of  the  bark,  the  gondola  is  a  tomb. 

Toward  the  last  of  January,  Amedee  suddenly  re- 
turned to  Paris.  He  would  not  be  obliged  to  see 
Maurice  or  his  young  bride  at  once.  They  had  been 
married  one  month  and  would  remain  in  the  South 
until  the  end  of  winter.  He  was  recalled  by  the  re- 
hearsals of  his  drama.  The  notary  who  had  charge 
of  his  affairs  gave  him  twelve  thousand  pounds'  in- 
come, a  large  competency,  which  enabled  him  to 
work  for  the  pure  and  disinterested  love  of  art,  and 
without  concessions  to  common  people.  The  young 
poet  furnished  an  elegant  apartment  in  an  old  and 
beautiful  house  on  the  Quai  d'Orsay,  and  sought  out 
some  of  his  old  comrades — among  others  Paul  Sillery, 
who  now  held  a  distinguished  place  in  journalism— 
and  reappeared  a  little  in  society,  becoming  very 
quickly  reconciled  with  life. 

His  first  call  was  upon  Madame  Roger.  He  was 
very  glad  to  see  Maurice's  mother;  she  was  a  little 
sad,  but  indulgent  to  Maurice,  and  resigned  to  her 
son's  marriage,  because  she  felt  satisfied  that  he  had 
acted  like  a  man  of  honor.  He  also  went  at  once  to 
Montmartre  to  embrace  Louise  and  Madame  Gerard, 
who  received  him  with  great  demonstrations.  They 
were  not  so  much  embarrassed  in  money  matters, 
for  Maurice  was  very  generous  and  had  aided  his 
wife's  family.  Louise  gave  lessons  now  for  a  proper 
remuneration,  and  Madame  Ge"rard  was  able  to  re- 
fuse, with  tears  of  gratitude,  the  poet's  offer  of  assist- 
ance, who  filially  opened  his  purse  to  her.  He  dined 

[208] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

as  usual  with  his  old  friends,  and  they  had  tact  enough 
not  to  say  too  much  about  the  newly  married  ones ;  but 
there  was  one  empty  place  at  the  table.  He  was  once 
more  seized  with  thoughts  of  the  absent,  and  returned 
to  his  room  that  evening  with  an  attack  of  the  blues. 

The  rehearsal  of  his  piece,  which  had  just  begun  at 
the  Comedie  Francaise,  the  long  sittings  at  the  theatre, 
and  the  changes  to  be  made  from  day  to  day,  were  a 
useful  and  powerful  distraction  for  Ame"de"e  Violette's 
grief.  U Atelier,  when  played  the  first  week  in  April, 
did  not  obtain  more  than  a  respectful  greeting  from 
the  public;  it  was  an  indifferent  success.  This  vulgar 
society,  these  simple,  plain,  sentiments,  the  sweetheart 
in  a  calico  gown,  the  respectable  old  man  in  short 
frock  and  overalls,  the  sharp  lines  where  here  and 
there  boldly  rang  out  a  slang  word  of  the  faubourg; 
above  all,  the  scene  representing  a  mill  in  full  activity, 
with  its  grumbling  workmen,  its  machines  in  motion, 
even  the  continual  puffing  of  steam,  all  displeased  the 
worldly  people  and  shocked  them.  This  was  too 
abrupt  a  change  from  luxurious  drawing-rooms,  titled 
persons,  aristocratic  adulteresses,  and  declarations 
of  love  murmured  to  the  heroine  in  full  toilette  by  a 
lover  leaning  his  elbow  upon  the  piano,  with  all  the 
airs  and  graces  of  a  first-class  dandy.  However,  Joc- 
quelet,  in  the  old  artisan's  role,  was  emphatic  and 
exaggerated,  and  an  ugly  and  commonplace  debutante 
was  an  utter  failure.  The  criticisms,  generally  rou- 
tine in  character,  were  not  gracious,  and  the  least 
surly  ones  condemned  Ame'de'e's  attempt,  qualifying 
it  as  an  honorable  effort.  There  were  some  slashes; 
14  [ 209  ] 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

one  "long-haired"  fellow  from  the  Cafe  de  Seville 
failed  in  his  criticism — the  very  one  who  once  wrote 
a  description  of  the  violation  of  a  tomb — to  crush  the 
author  of  U Atelier  in  an  ultra-classical  article,  where- 
in he  protested  against  realism  and  called  to  witness 
all  the  silent,  sculptured  authors  in  the  hall. 

It  was  a  singular  thing,  but  Amedee  was  easily  con- 
soled over  his  failure.  He  did  not  have  the  necessary 
qualities  to  succeed  in  the  theatrical  line?  Very  well, 
he  would  give  it  up,  that  was  all!  It  was  not  such 
a  great  misfortune,  upon  the  whole,  to  abandon  the 
most  difficult  art  of  all,  but  not  the  first;  which  did 
not  allow  a  poet  to  act  his  own  free  liking.  Amedee 
began  to  compose  verses  for  himself — for  his  own  grati- 
fication; to  become  intoxicated  with  his  own  rhymes 
and  fancies;  to  gather  with  a  sad  pleasure  the  melan- 
choly flowers  that  his  trouble  had  caused  to  blossom 
in  his  heart. 

Meanwhile  summer  arrived,  and  Maurice  returned 
to  Paris  with  his  wife  and  a  little  boy,  born  at  Nice, 
and  Amedee  must  go  to  see  them,  although  he  knew 
in  advance  that  the  visit  would  make  him  unhappy. 

The  amateur  painter  was  handsomer  than  ever. 
He  was  alone  in  his  studio,  wearing  his  same  red 
jacket.  He  had  decorated  and  even  crammed  the 
room  full  of  luxurious  and  amusing  knickknacks. 
The  careless  young  man  received  his  friend  as  if  noth- 
ing had  happened  between  them,  and  after  their  greet- 
ings and  inquiries  as  to  old  friends,  and  the  events 
that  had  happened  since  their  last  meeting,  they  lighted 
their  cigarettes. 

[210] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

"Well,  what  have  you  done?"  asked  the  poet. 
"You  had  great  projects  of  work.  Have  you  carried 
out  your  plans?  Have  you  many  sketches  to  show 
me?" 

"Upon  my  word,  no!  Almost  nothing.  Do  you 
know,  when  I  was  there  I  abandoned  myself  to  liv- 
ing; I  played  the  lizard  in  the  sun.  Happiness  is 
very  engrossing,  and  I  have  been  foolishly  happy." 

Then  placing  his  hand  upon  his  friend's,  who  sat 
near  him,  he  added: 

"But  I  owe  that  happiness  to  you,  my  good  Ame- 


Maurice  said  this  carelessly,  in  order  to  satisfy  his 
conscience.  Did  he  remember,  did  he  even  suspect 
how  unhappy  the  poet  had  been,  and  was  now,  on 
account  of  this  happiness?  A  bell  rang. 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  the  master  of  the  house,  joyfully. 
"It  is  Maria  returning  with  the  baby  from  a  walk  in 
the  gardens.  This  little  citizen  will  be  six  weeks  old 
to-morrow,  and  you  must  see  what  a  handsome  little 
fellow  he  is  already.  " 

Amede'e  felt  stifled  with  emotion.  He  was  about  to 
see  her  again!  To  see  her  as  a  wife  and  a  mother 
was  quite  different,  of  course. 

She  appeared,  raising  the  portiere  with  one  hand, 
while  behind  her  appeared  the  white  bonnet  and  rus- 
tic face  of  the  nurse.  No!  she  was  not  changed,  but 
maternity,  love,  and  a  rich  and  easy  life  had  expanded 
her  beauty.  She  was  dressed  in  a  fresh  and  charm- 
ing toilette.  She  blushed  when  she  first  recognized 
Amedee;  and  he  felt  with  sadness  that  his  presence 

[211] 


FRANCOIS  COPPfiE 

could   only   awaken   unpleasant   recollections   in   the 
young  woman's  mind. 

"Kiss  each  other,  like  old  acquaintances,"  said  the 
painter,  laughing,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  is  loved 
and  sure  of  himself. 

But  Amede'e  contented  himself  with  kissing  the 
tips  of  her  glove,  and  the  glance  with  which  Maria 
thanked  him  for  this  reserve  was  one  more  torture 
for  him  to  endure.  She  was  grateful  to  him  and  gave 
him  a  kind  smile. 

"My  mother  and  my  sister,"  said  she,  graciously, 
"often  have  the  pleasure  of  a  visit  from  you,  Monsieur 
Amedee.  I  hope  that  you  will  not  make  us  jealous, 
but  come  often  to  see  Maurice  and  me." 

"Maurice  and  me!"  How  soft  and  tender  her 
voice  and  eyes  became  as  she  said  these  simple  words, 
"Maurice  and  me!"  Ah,  were  they  not  one!  How 
she  loved  him!  How  she  loved  him! 

Then  Amedee  must  admire  the  baby,  who  was  now 
awake  in  his  nurse's  arms,  aroused  by  his  father's 
noisy  gayety.  The  child  opened  his  blue  eyes,  as  se- 
rious as  those  of  an  old  man's,  and  peeped  out  from 
the  depth  of  lace,  feebly  squeezing  the  finger  that  the 
poet  extended  to  him. 

"What  do  you  call  him?"  asked  Amedee,  troubled 
to  find  anything  to  say. 

"Maurice,  after  his  father,"  quickly  responded 
Maria,  who  also  put  a  mint  of  love  into  these  words. 

Amede'e  could  endure  no  more.  He  made  some 
pretext  for  withdrawing  and  went  away,  promising 
that  he  would  see  them  again  soon. 

[212] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

"I  shall  not  go  there  very  often!"  he  said  to  him- 
self, as  he  descended  the  steps,  furious  with  himself 
that  he  was  obliged  to  hold  back  a  sob. 

He  went  there,  however,  and  always  suffered  from 
it.  He  was  the  one  who  had  made  this  marriage; 
he  ought  to  rejoice  that  Maurice,  softened  by  conjugal 
life  and  paternity,  did  not  return  to  his  recklessness 
of  former  days;  but,  on  the  contrary,  the  sight  of 
this  household,  Maria's  happy  looks,  the  allusions  that 
she  sometimes  made  of  gratitude  to  Amedee;  above 
all  Maurice's  domineering  way  in  his  home,  his  way 
of  speaking  to  his  wife  like  an  indulgent  master  to  a 
slave  delighted  to  obey,  all  displeased  and  unmanned 
him.  He  always  left  Maurice's  displeased  with  him- 
self, and  irritated  with  the  bad  sentiments  that  he  had 
in  his  heart;  ashamed  of  loving  another's  wife,  the 
wife  of  his  old  comrade;  and  keeping  up  all  the  same 
his  friendship  for  Maurice,  whom  he  was  never  able 
to  see  without  a  feeling  of  envy  and  secret  bitterness. 

He  managed  to  lengthen  the  distance  between  his 
visits  to  the  young  pair,  and  to  put  another  interest 
into  his  life.  He  was  now  a  man  of  leisure,  and  his 
fortune  allowed  him  to  work  when  he  liked  and  felt 
inspired.  He  returned'  to  society  and  traversed  ^the 
midst  of  miscellaneous  parlors,  greenrooms,  and  Bo- 
hemian society.  He  loitered  about  these  places  a 
great  deal  and  lost  his  time,  was  interested  by  all  the 
women,  duped  by  his  tender  imagination;  always  exT 
pending  too  much  sensibility  in  his  fancies;  taking  his 
desires  for  love,  and  devoting  himself  to  women. 

The  first  of  his  loves  was  a  beautiful  Madame,  whom 
[213] 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

he  met  in  the  Countess  Fontaine's  parlors.  She  was 
provided  with  a  very  old  husband  belonging  to  the 
political  and  financial  world;  a  servant  of  several 
regimes,  who  having  on  many  occasions  feathered 
his  own  nest,  made  false  statements  of  accounts,  and 
betrayed  his  vows,  his  name  could  not  be  spoken  in 
public  assemblies  without  being  preceded  by  the  epi- 
thet of  honorable.  A  man  so  seriously  occupied  in 
saving  the  Capitol,  that  is  to  say,  in  courageously  sus- 
taining the  stronger,  approving  the  majorities  in  all 
of  their  mean  actions  and  thus  increasing  his  own 
ground,  sinecures,  tips,  stocks,  and  various  other  ad- 
vantages, necessarily  neglected  his  charming  wife,  and 
took  very  little  notice  of  the  ridicule  that  she  inflicted 
upon  him  often,  and  to  which  he  seemed  predestined. 

The  fair  lady  —  with  a  wax  doll's  beauty,  not 
very  young,  confining  herself  to  George  Sand  in  lit- 
erature, making  three  toilettes  a  day,  and  having  a 
large  account  at  the  dentist's — singled  out  the  young 
poet  with  a  romantic  head,  and  rapidly  traversed  with 
him  the  whole  route  through  the  country  of  Love. 
Thanks  to  modern  progress,  the  voyage  is  now  made 
by  a  through  train.  After  passing  the  smaller  stations, 
"blushing  behind  the  fan,"  a  "significant  pressure  of 
the  hand,"  "appointment  in  a  museum,"  etc.,  and 
halting  at  a  station  of  very  little  importance  called 
"scruples"  (ten  minutes'  pause),  Amedee  reached  the 
.terminus  of  the  line  and  was  the  most  enviable  of 
mortals.  He  became  Madame's  lapdog,  the  essential 
ornament  in  her  drawing-room,  figured  at  all  the  din- 
ners, balls,  and  routs  where  she  appeared,  stifled  his 

[214] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

yawns  at  the  back  of  her  box  at  the  Opera,  and  re- 
ceived the  confidential  mission  of  going  to  hunt  for 
sweetmeats  and  chocolates  in  the  foyer.  His  recom- 
pense consisted  in  metaphysical  conversations  and  sen- 
timental seances,  in  which  he  was  not  long  in  discover- 
ing that  his  heart  was  blinded  by  his  emotions.  At 
the  end  of  a  few  months  of  this  commonplace  happi- 
ness, the  rupture  took  place  without  any  regrets  on 
either  side,  and  Amedee  returned,  without  a  pang, 
the  love-tokens  he  had  received,  namely:  a  photograph, 
a  package  of  letters  in  imitation  of  fashionable  ro- 
mances, written  in  long,  angular  handwriting,  after 
the  English  style,  upon  very  chic  paper;  and,  we  must 
not  forget,  a  white  glove  which  was  a  little  yellowed 
from  confinement  in  the  casket,  like  the  beautiful 
Madame  herself. 

A  tall  girl,  with  a  body  like  a  goddess,  who  earned 
three  hundred  francs  a  month  by  showing  her  cos- 
tumes on  the  Vaudeville  stage,  and  who  gave  one 
louis  a  day  to  her  hair-dresser,  gave  Amedee  a  new 
experience  in  love,  more  expensive,  but  much  more 
amusing  than  the  first.  There  were  no  more  psycho- 
logical subtleties  or  hazy  consciences;  but  she  had 
fine,  strong  limbs  and  the  majestic  carriage  of  a  car- 
dinal's mistress  going  through  the  Rue  de  Constance 
in  heavy  brocade  garments,  to  see  Jean  Huss  burned; 
and  her  voluptuous  smile  showed  teeth  made  to  devour 
patrimonies.  Unfortunately,  Mademoiselle  Rose  de 
Juin's — that  was  the  young  lady's  theatrical  name- 
charming  head  was  full  of  the  foolishness  and  vanity 
of  a  poor  actress.  Her  attacks  of  rage  when  she 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

read  an  article  in  the  journals  which  cut  her  up,  her 
nervous  attacks  and  torrents  of  tears  when  they  gave 
her  parts  with  only  fifteen  lines  in  a  new  piece,  had 
begun  to  annoy  Amede'e,  when  chance  gave  him  a 
new  rival  in  the  person  of  Gradoux,  an  actor  in  the 
Variete"s,  the  ugly  clown  whose  chronic  cold  in  the 
head  and  ugly  face  seemed  for  twenty  years  so  de- 
licious to  the  most  refined  public  in  the  world.  Re- 
lieved of  a  large  number  of  bank-notes,  Violette  dis- 
creetly retired. 

He  next  carried  on  a  commonplace  romance  with 
a  pretty  little  girl  whose  acquaintance  he  made  one 
evening  at  a  public  jete.  Louison  was  twenty  years 
old,  and  earned  her  living  at  a  famous  florist's,  and 
was  as  pink  and  fresh  as  an  almond-bush  in  April. 
She  had  had  only  two  lovers,  gay  fellows — an  art 
student  first — then  a  clerk  in  a  novelty  store,  who  had 
given  her  the  not  very  aristocratic  taste  for  boating. 
It  was  on  the  Marne,  seated  near  Louison  in  a  boat 
moored  to  the  willows  on  the  He  d'Amour,  that  Ame- 
dee  obtained  his  first  kiss  between  two  stanzas  of  a 
boating  song,  and  this  pretty  creature,  who  never 
came  to  see  him  without  bringing  him  a  bouquet, 
charmed  the  poet.  He  remembered  Beranger's  charm- 
ing verses,  "I  am  of  the  people  as  well,  my  love!" 
felt  that  he  loved,  and  was  softened.  In  reality,  he 
had  turned  this  naive  head.  Louison  became  dreamy, 
asked  for  a  lock  of  his  hair,  which  she  always  carried 
with  her  in  her  porte-monnaie,  went  to  get  her  fortune 
told  to  know  whether  the  dark-complexioned  young 
man,  the  knave  of  clubs,  would  be  faithful  to  her  for 

[216] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

a  long  time.  Amedee  trusted  this  simple  heart  for 
some  time,  but  at  length  he  became  tired  of  her  vul- 
garities. She  was  really  too  talkative,  not  minding 
her  &'s  and  punctuating  her  discourse  with  "for  cer- 
tain" and  "listen  to  me,  then,"  calling  Amedee  "my 
little  man,"  and  eating  vulgar  dishes.  One  day  she 
offered  to  kiss  him,  with  a  breath  that  smelled  of  gar- 
lic. She  was  the  one  who  left  him,  from  feminine 
pride,  feeling  that  he  no  longer  loved  her,  and  he  al- 
most regretted  her. 

Thus  his  life  passed ;  he  worked  a  little  and  dreamed 
much.  He  went  as  rarely  as  possible  to  Maurice 
Roger's  house.  Maurice  had  decidedly  turned  out  to  be 
a  good  husband,  and  was  fond  of  his  home  and  playing 
with  his  little  boy.  Every  time  that  Amedee  saw 
Maria  it  meant  several  days  of  discouragement,  sorrow, 
and  impossibility  of  work. 

"Well!  well!"  he  would  murmur,  throwing  down 
his  pen,  when  the  young  woman's  face  would  rise 
between  his  thoughts  and  his  page;  "I  am  incurable; 
I  shall  always  love  her." 

In  the  summer  of  1870  Amede'e,  being  tired  of  Paris, 
thought  of  a  new  trip,  and  he  was  upon  the  point  of 
going  again,  unfortunate  fellow!  to  see  the  Swiss  por- 
ters who  speak  all  the  languages  in  the  world,  and  to 
view  the  melancholy  boots  in  the  hotel  corridors,  when 
the  war  broke  out.  The  poet's  passage  through  the 
midst  of  the  revolutionary  "beards"  in  the  Cafe  de 
Seville,  and  the  parliamentary  cravats  in  the  Countess's 
drawing-room,  had  disgusted  him  forever  with  pol- 
itics. He  also  was  very  suspicious  of  the  Liberal  min- 

[217] 


FRANCOIS 

isters  and  all  the  different  phases  of  the  malady  that 
was  destroying  the  Second  Empire.  But  Amedee 
was  a  good  Frenchman.  The  assaults  upon  the  fron- 
tiers, and  the  first  battles  lost,  made  a  burning  blush 
suffuse  his  face  at  the  insult.  When  Paris  was  threat- 
ened he  asked  for  arms,  like  the  others,  and  although 
he  had  not  a  military  spirit,  he  swore  to  do  his  duty, 
and  his  entire  duty,  too.  One  beautiful  September 
morning  he  saw  Trochu's  gilded  cap  passing  among 
the  bayonets;  four  hundred  thousand  Parisians  were 
there,  like  himself,  full  of  good-will,  who  had  taken 
up  their  guns  with  the  resolve  to  die  steadfast.  Ah, 
the  misery  of  defeat!  All  these  brave  men  for  five 
months  could  only  fidget  about  the  place  and  eat  car- 
cases. May  the  good  God  forgive  the  timid  and  the 
prattler!  Alas!  Poor  old  France!  After  so  much 
glory!  Poor  France  of  Jeanne  d'Arc  and  of  Napoleon! 


[218] 


CHAPTER  XVI 

IN  TIME  OF  WAR 

[E  great  siege  lasted  nearly  three 
months.  Upon  the  thirtieth  of  No- 
vember they  had  fought  a  battle  upon 
the  banks  of  the  Marne,  then  for 
twenty -four  hours  the  fight  had 
seemed  to  slacken,  and  there  was  a 
heavy  snow-storm;  but  they  main- 
tained that  the  second  of  December 
would  be  decisive.  That  morning  the  battalion  of  the 
National  Guard,  of  which  Amedee  Violette  was  one, 
went  out  for  the  first  time,  with  the  order  simply  to 
hold  themselves  in  reserve  in  the  third  rank,  by  the 
fort's  cannons,  upon  a  hideous  plain  at  the  east  of 
Paris. 

Truly  this  National  Guard  did  not  make  a  bad 
appearance.  They  were  a  trifle  awkward,  perhaps,  in 
their  dark-blue  hooded  cloaks,  with  their  tin-plate  but- 
tons, and  armed  with  breech-loading  rifles,  and  en- 
cumbered with  canteens,  basins,  and  pouches,  all  hav- 
ing an  unprepared  and  too-new  look.  They  all  came 
from  the  best  parts  of  the  city,  with  accelerated  steps 
and  a  loud  beating  of  drums,  and  headed,  if  you 
please,  by  their  major  on  horseback,  a  trussmaker, 

[219] 


FRANCOIS  COPPfiE 

who  had  formerly  been  quartermaster  of  the  third 
hussars.  Certainly  they  only  asked  for  service;  it 
was  not  their  fault,  after  all,  if  one  had  not  confidence 
in  them,  and  if  they  were  not  sent  to  the  front  as  soon 
as  they  reached  the  fortifications.  While  crossing  the 
drawbridge  they  had  sung  the  Marseillaise  like  men 
ready  to  be  shot  down.  What  spoiled  their  martial 
appearance,  perhaps,  were  their  strong  hunting-boots, 
their  leather  leggings,  knit  gloves,  and  long  gaiters; 
lastly,  that  comfortable  air  of  people  who  have  brought 
with  them  a  few  dainties,  such  as  a  little  bread  with 
something  eatable  between,  some  tablets  of  chocolate, 
tobacco,  and  a  phial  filled  with  old  rum.  They  had 
not  gone  two  kilometres  outside  the  ramparts,  and 
were  near  the  fort,  where  for  the  time  being  the  ar- 
tillery was  silent,  when  a  staff  officer  who  was  await- 
ing them  upon  an  old  hack  of  a  horse,  merely  skin  and 
bones,  stopped  them  by  a  gesture  of  the  hand,  and 
said  sharply  to  their  major  to  take  position  on  the  left 
of  the  road,  in  an  open  field.  They  then  stacked 
their  arms  there  and  broke  ranks,  and  rested  until 
further  orders. 

What  a  dismal  place!  Under  a  canopy  of  dull 
clouds,  the  earth  bare  with  half-melted  snow,  with  the 
low  fort  rising  up  before  them  as  if  in  an  attitude  of 
defence,  here  and  there  groups  of  ruined  houses,  a 
mill  whose  tall  chimney  and  walls  had  been  half  de- 
stroyed by  shells,  but  where  one  still  read,  in  large 
black  letters,  these  words,  "Soap-maker  to  the  No- 
bility;" and  through  this  desolated  country  was  a  long 
and  muddy  road  which  led  over  to  where  the  battle- 

[  220  ] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

field  lay,  and  in  the  midst  of  which,  presenting  a  sym- 
bol of  death,  lay  the  dead  body  of  a  horse. 

In  front  of  the  National  Guard,  on  the  other  side  of 
the  road,  a  battalion,  which  had  been  strongly  put  to 
the  test  the  night  before,  were  cooking.  They  had 
retreated  as  far  as  this  to  rest  a  little,  and  had  spent 
all  that  night  without  shelter  under  the  falling  snow. 
Exhausted,  bespattered,  in  rags,  they  were  dolefully 
crouched  around  their  meagre  green-wood  fires;  the 
poor  creatures  were  to  be  pitied.  Underneath  their 
misshapen  caps  they  all  showed  yellow,  wrinkled,  and 
unshaven  faces.  The  bitter,  cold  wind  that  swept 
over  the  plain  made  their  thin  shoulders,  stooping 
from  fatigue,  shiver,  and  their  shoulder-blades  pro- 
truded under  their  faded  capes.  Some  of  them  were 
wounded,  too  slightly  to  be  sent  away  in  the  ambu- 
lance, and  wore  about  their  wrists  and  foreheads  bands 
of  bloody  linen.  When  an  officer  passed  with  his 
head  bent  and  a  humiliated  air,  nobody  saluted  him. 
These  men  had  suffered  too  much,  and  one  could  di- 
vine an  angry  and  insolent  despair  in  their  gloomy 
looks,  ready  to  burst  out  and  tell  of  their  injuries. 
They  would  have  disgusted  one  if  they  had  not  excited 
one's  pity.  Alas,  they  were  vanquished ! 

The  Parisians  were  eager  for  news  as  to  recent  mil- 
itary operations,  for  they  had  only  read  in  the  morning 
papers — as  they  always  did  during  this  frightful  siege 
—enigmatical  despatches  and  bulletins  purposely  bris- 
tling with  strategic  expressions  not  comprehensible 
to  the  outsider.  But  all,  or  nearly  all,  had  kept  their 
patriotic  hopes  intact,  or,  to  speak  more  plainly,  their 

[221] 


FRANCOIS  COPPEE 

blind  fanatical  patriotism,  and  were  certain  against 
all  reason  of  a  definite  victory;  they  walked  along 
the  road  in  little  groups,  and  drew  near  the  red  pan- 
taloons to  talk  a  little. 

"Well,  it  was  a  pretty  hot  affair  on  the  thirtieth, 
wasn't  it?  Is  it  true  that  you  had  command  of  the 
Marne?  You  know  what  they  say  in  Paris,  my  chil- 
dren? That  Trochu  knows  something  new,  that  he 
is  going  to  make  his  way  through  the  Prussian  lines 
and  join  hands  with  the  helping  armies — in  a  word 
that  we  are  going  to  strike  the  last  blow.'* 

At  the  sight  of  these  spectres  of  soldiers,  these  un- 
happy men  broken  down  with  hunger  and  fatigue, 
the  genteel  National  Guards,  warmly  clad  and  wrapped 
up  for  the  winter,  commenced  to  utter  foolish  speeches 
and  big  hopes  which  had  been  their  daily  food  for 
several  months:  "Break  the  iron  circle;"  "not  one 
inch,  not  a  stone;"  "war  to  the  knife;"  "one  grand 
effort,"  etc.  But  the  very  best  talkers  were  speedily 
discouraged  by  the  shrugging  of  shoulders  and  ugly 
glances  of  the  soldiers,  that  were  like  those  of  a  snarl- 
ing cur. 

Meanwhile,  a  superb  sergeant-major  of  the  National 
Guard,  newly  equipped,  a  big,  full-blooded  fellow, 
with  a  red  beard,  the  husband  of  a  fashionable  dress- 
maker, who  every  evening  at  the  beer-house,  after  his 
sixth  glass  of  beer  would  show,  with  matches,  an  in- 
fallible plan  for  blocking  Paris  and  crushing  the  Prus- 
sian army  like  pepper,  and  was  foolish  enough  to 
insist  upon  it. 

"Now  then,  you,  my  good  fellow,"  said  he,  address- 
[  222  ] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

ing  an  insignificant  corporal  just  about  to  eat  his  stew, 
as  if  he  were  questioning  an  old  tactician  or  a  man 
skilled  like  Turenne  or  Davoust;  "do  you  see?  you 
hit  it  in  this  affair  of  day  before  yesterday.  Give  us 
your  opinion.  Are  the  positions  occupied  by  Ducrot 
as  strong  as  they  pretend?  Is  it  victory  for  to-day?" 

The  corporal  turned  around  suddenly;  with  a  face 
the  color  of  boxwood,  and  his  blue  eyes  shining  with 
rage  and  defiance,  he  cried  in  a  hoarse  voice: 

"Go  and  see  for  yourselves,  you  stay-at-homes!" 

Saddened  and  heart-broken  at  the  demoralization 
of  the  soldiers,  the  National  Guards  withdrew. 

"Behold  the  army  which  the  Empire  has  left  us!" 
said  the  dressmaker's  husband,  who  was  a  fool. 

Upon  the  road  leading  from  Paris,  pressing  toward 
the  cannon's  mouth  which  was  commencing  to  grum- 
ble again  in  the  distance,  a  battalion  of  militia  arrived, 
a  disorderly  troop.  They  were  poor  fellows  from  the 
departments  in  the  west,  all  young,  wearing  in  their 
caps  the  Brittany  coat-of-arms,  and  whom  suffering 
and  privation  had  not  yet  entirely  deprived  of  their 
good  country  complexions.  They  were  less  worn  out 
than  the  other  unfortunate  fellows  whose  turn  came 
too  often,  and  did  not  feel  the  cold  under  their  sheep- 
skins, and  still  respected  their  officers,  whom  they 
knew  personally,  and  were  assured  in  case  of  accident 
of  absolution  given  by  one  of  their  priests,  who 
marched  in  the  rear  file  of  the  first  company,  with  his 
cassock  tucked  up  and  his  Roman  hat  over  his  eyes. 
These  country  fellows  walked  briskly,  a  little  helter- 
skelter,  like  their  ancestors  in  the  time  of  Stofflet  and 

[223] 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

M.  de  la  Rochejaquelin,  but  with  a  firm  step  and  their 
muskets  well  placed  upon  their  shoulders,  by  Ste. 
Anne!  They  looked  like  soldiers  in  earnest. 

When  they  passed  by  the  National  Guard,  the  big 
blond  waved  his  cap  in  the  air,  furiously  shouting  at 
the  top  of  his  lungs: 

"Long  live  the  Republic!" 

But  once  more  the  fanatical  patriot's  enthusiasm  fell 
flat.  The  Bretons  were  marching  into  danger  partly 
from  desire,  but  more  from  duty  and  discipline.  At 
the  very  first  shot  these  simple-minded  creatures  reach 
the  supreme  wisdom  of  loving  one's  country  and  los- 
ing one's  life  for  it,  if  necessary,  without  interesting 
themselves  in  the  varied  mystifications  one  calls  gov- 
ernment. Four  or  five  of  the  men,  more  or  less  as- 
tonished at  the  cry  which  greeted  them,  turned  their 
placid,  countrified  faces  toward  the  National  Guard, 
and  the  battalion  passed  by. 

The  dressmaker's  husband — he  did  nothing  at  his 
trade,  for  his  wife  adored  him,  and  he  spent  at 
cafes  all  the  money  which  she  gave  him — was  ex- 
tremely scandalized.  During  this  time  Amede'e  Vio- 
lette  was  dreamily  walking  up  and  down  before  the 
stacks  of  guns.  His  warlike  ardor  of  the  first  few 
days  had  dampened.  He  had  seen  and  heard  too 
many  foolish  things  said  and  done  since  the  be- 
ginning of  this  horrible  siege ;  had  taken  part  too  many 
times  in  one  of  the  most  wretched  spectacles  in  which 
a  people  can  show  vanity  in  adversity.  He  was  heart- 
broken to  see  his  dear  compatriots,  his  dear  Parisians, 
redouble  their  boasting  after  each  defeat  and  take  their 

[224] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

levity  for  heroism.  If  he  admired  the  resignation  of 
the  poor  women  standing  in  line  before  the  door  of  a 
butcher's  shop,  he  was  every  day  more  sadly  tormented 
by  the  bragging  of  his  comrades,  who  thought  them- 
selves heroes  when  playing  a  game  of  corks.  The 
official  placards,  the  trash  in  the  journals,  inspired  him 
with  immense  disgust,  for  they  had  never  lied  so  boldly 
or  flattered  the  people  with  so  much  low  meanness. 
It  was  with  a  despairing  heart  and  the  certitude  of 
final  disaster  that  Amede"e,  needing  a  little  sleep  after 
the  fatigue,  wandered  through  Paris's  obscure  streets, 
barely  lighted  here  and  there  by  petroleum  lamps, 
under  the  dark,  opaque  winter  sky,  where  the  echoes 
of  the  distant  cannonading  unceasingly  growled  like 
the  barking  of  monstrous  dogs. 

What  solitude!  The  poet  had  not  one  friend,  not 
one  comrade  to  whom  he  could  confide  his  patriotic 
sorrows.  Paul  Sillery  was  serving  in  the  army  of  the 
Loire.  Arthur  Papillon,  who  had  shown  such  bois- 
terous enthusiasm  on  the  fourth  of  September,  had 
been  nominated  prefet  in  a  Pyrenean  department,  and 
having  looked  over  his  previous  studies,  the  former 
laureate  of  the  university  examinations  spent  much 
of  his  time  therein,  far  from  the  firing,  in  making  great 
speeches  and  haranguing  from  the  top  of  the  balconies, 
in  which  speeches  the  three  hundred  heroes  of  antiq- 
uity in  a  certain  mountain-pass  were  a  great  deal  too 
often  mentioned.  Ame'de'e  sometimes  went  to  see  Joc- 
quelet  in  the  theatres,  where  they  gave  benefit  per- 
formances for  the  field  hospitals  or  to  contribute  to 
the  molding  of  a  new  cannon.  The  actor,  wearing  a 
i5  [225] 


FRANCOIS 

short  uniform  and  booted  to  the  thighs,  would  recite 
with  enormous  success  poems  of  the  times  in  which 
enthusiasm  and  fine  sentiments  took  the  place  of  art 
and  common  sense.  What  can  one  say  to  a  triumphant 
actor  who  takes  himself  for  a  second  Tyrtee,  and 
who  after  a  second  recall  is  convinced  that  he  is  going 
to  save  the  country,  and  that  Bismarck  and  old  Will- 
iam had  better  look  after  their  laurels. 

As  to  Maurice  Roger,  at  the  beginning  of  the  cam- 
paign he  sent  his  mother,  wife,  and  child  into  the 
country,  and,  wearing  the  double  golden  stripe  of  a 
lieutenant  upon  his  militia  jacket,  he  was  now  at  the 
outposts  near  his  father's  old  friend,  Colonel  Lantz. 

Owing  to  a  scarcity  of  officers,  they  had  fished  up 
the  old  Colonel  from  the  depths  of  his  engineer's  office, 
and  had  torn  him  away  from  his  squares  and  com- 
passes. Poor  old  fellow!  His  souvenirs  of  activity 
went  as  far  back  as  the  Crimea  and  Sebastopol.  Since 
that  time  he  had  not  even  seen  a  pickaxe  glisten  in 
the  sun,  and,  behold,  they  asked  this  worthy  man  to 
return  to  the  trench,  and  to  powder  his  despatches  with 
earth  ploughed  up  by  bombs,  like  Junot  at  Toulon  in 
the  fearless  battery. 

Well,  he  did  not  say  "No,"  and  after  kissing  his 
three  portionless  daughters  on  the  forehead,  he  took 
his  old  uniform,  half -eaten  up  by  moths,  from  a  drawer, 
shook  the  grains  of  pepper  and  camphor  from  it,  and, 
with  his  slow,  red-tapist  step,  went  to  make  his  exca- 
vators work  as  far  as  possible  from  the  walls  and  close 
by  the  Prussians.  I  can  tell  you,  the  men  of  the  aux- 
iliary engineers  and  the  gentlemen  with  the  American 

[226] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

caps  had  not  joked  for  some  time  over  his  African 
cape  or  his  superannuated  cap,  which  seemed  to  date 
from  Pere  Bugeaud.  One  day,  when  a  German 
bomb  burst  among  them,  and  they  all  fell  to  the 
ground  excepting  Colonel  Lantz,  who  had  not  flinched. 
He  tranquilly  settled  his  glasses  upon  his  nose  and 
wiped  off  his  splashed  beard  as  coolly  as  he  had,  not 
long  since,  cleaned  his  india-ink  brushes.  Bless  me! 
it  gave  you  a  lesson,  gentlemen  snobs,  to  sustain  the 
honor  of  the  special  army,  and  taught  you  to  respect 
the  black  velvet  plastron  and  double  red  bands  on 
the  trousers.  In  spite  of  his  appearance  of  absence 
of  mind  and  deafness,  the  Colonel  had  just  before 
heard  murmured  around  him  the  words  "old  Lantz," 
and  "old  dolphin."  Very  well,  gentlemen  officers, 
you  know  now  that  the  old  army  was  composed  of 
good  material! 

Maurice  Roger  was  ordered  from  his  battalion  to 
Colonel  Lantz,  and  did  his  duty  like  a  true  soldier's 
son,  following  his  chief  into  the  most  perilous  posi- 
tions, and  he  no  longer  lowered  his  head  or  bent  his 
shoulders  at  the  whistling  of  a  bomb.  It  was  genuine 
military  blood  that  flowed  in  his  veins,  and  he  did  not 
fear  death;  but  life  in  the  open  air,  absence  from  his 
wife,  the  state  of  excitement  produced  by  the  war, 
and  this  eagerness  for  pleasure  common  to  all  those 
who  risk  their  lives,  had  suddenly  awakened  his  li- 
centious temperament.  When  his  service  allowed  him 
to  do  so,  he  would  go  into  Paris  and  spend  twenty- 
four  hours  there,  profiting  by  it  to  have  a  champagne 
dinner  at  Brebant's  or  Voisin's,  in  company  with  some 

[227] 


FRANCOIS  COPPfiE 

beautiful  girl,  and  to  eat  the  luxurious  dishes  of  that 
time,  such  as  beans,  Gruyere  cheese,  and  the  great 
rarity  which  had  been  secretly  raised  for  three  months 
on  the  fifth  floor,  a  leg  of  mutton. 

One  evening  Amede'e  Violette  was  belated  upon  the 
boulevards,  and  saw  coming  out  of  a  restaurant  Mau- 
rice in  full  uniform,  with  one  of  the  pretty  comedi- 
nenes  from  the  Varietes  leaning  upon  his  arm.  This 
meeting  gave  Amedee  one  heart-ache  the  more.  It  was 
for  such  a  husband  as  this,  then,  that  Mark,  buried 
in  some  country  place,  was  probably  at  this  very  time 
overwhelmed  with  fears  about  his  safety.  It  was  for 
this  incorrigible  rake  that  she  had  disdained  her  friend 
from  childhood,  and  scorned  the  most  delicate,  faith- 
ful, and  tender  of  lovers. 

Finally,  to  kill  time  and  to  flee  from  solitude,  Ame*- 
dee  went  to  the  Caf«  de  Seville,  but  he  only  found  a 
small  group  of  his  former  acquaintances  there.  No 
more  literary  men,  or  almost  none.  The  "long- 
haired" ones  had  to-day  the  "regulation  cut,"  and 
wore  divers  headgears,  for  the  most  of  the  scattered 
poets  carried  cartridge-boxes  and  guns;  but  some  of 
the  political  "beards"  had  not  renounced  their  old 
customs;  the  war  and  the  fall  of  the  Empire  had  been 
a  triumph  for  them,  and  the  fourth  of  September  had 
opened  every  career  for  them.  Twenty  of  these 
"beards"  had  been  provided  with  prefectures;  at  least 
all,  or  nearly  all,  of  them  occupied  public  positions. 
There  was  one  in  the  Government  of  National  De- 
fence, and  three  or  four  others,  chosen  from  among 
the  most  rabid  ones,  were  members  of  the  Committee 

[228] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

on  Barricades;  for,  improbable  as  the  thing  may 
seem  to-day,  this  commission  existed  and  performed 
its  duties,  a  commission  according  to  all  rules,  with 
an  organized  office,  a  large  china  inkstand,  stamped 
paper,  verbal  reports  read  and  voted  upon  at  the  be- 
ginning of  each  meeting;  and,  around  a  table  covered 
with  green  cloth,  these  professional  instigators  of  the 
Cafe  de  Seville,  these  teachers  of  insurrection,  gener- 
ously gave  the  country  the  benefit  of  the  practical  ex- 
perience that  they  had  acquired  in  practising  with  the 
game  of  dominoes. 

The  "beards"  remaining  in  Paris  were  busied  with 
employments  more  or  less  considerable  in  the  govern- 
ment, but  did  not  do  very  much,  the  offices  in  which 
they  worked  for  France's  salvation  usually  closed  at 
four  o'clock,  and  they  went  as  usual  to  take  their  ap- 
petizers at  the  Cafe  de  Seville.  It  was  there  that 
Ame'dee  met  them  again,  and  mixed  anew  in  their 
conversations,  which  now  dwelt  exclusively  upon  pa- 
triotic and  military  subjects.  These  "beards"  who 
would  none  of  them  have  been  able  to  command  "by 
the  right  flank"  a  platoon  of  artillery,  had  all  at  once 
been  endowed  by  some  magical  power  with  the  genius 
of  strategy.  Every  evening,  from  five  to  seven,  they 
fought  a  decisive  battle  upon  each  marble  table,  sus- 
tained by  the  artillery  of  the  iced  decanter  which  rep- 
resented Mount  Valerien,  a  glass  of  bitters,  that  is  to 
say,  Vinoy's  brigade,  feigned  to  attack  a  saucer  rep- 
resenting the  Montretout  batteries;  while  the  regular 
army  and  National  Guard,  symbolized  by  a  glass  of 
vermouth  and  absinthe,  were  coming  in  solid  masses 

[229] 


FRANCOIS  COPPfiE 

from  the  south,  and  marching  straight  into  the  heart 
of  the  enemy,  the  match-box. 

There  were  scheming  men  among  these  "beards," 
and  particularly  terrible  inventors,  who  all  had  an 
infallible  way  of  destroying  at  a  blow  the  Prussian 
army,  and  who  accused  General  Trochu  of  treason, 
and  of  refusing  their  offers,  giving  as  a  reason  the 
old  prejudices  of  military  laws  among  nations.  One 
of  these  visionary  people  had  formerly  been  physician 
to  a  somnambulist,  and  took  from  his  pocket — with 
his  tobacco  and  cigarette  papers — a  series  of  bottles 
labelled:  cholera,  yellow  fever,  typhus  fever,  small- 
pox, etc.,  and  proposed  as  a  very  simple  thing  to  go 
and  spread  these  epidemics  in  all  the  German  camps, 
by  the  aid  of  a  navigable  balloon,  which  he  had  just  in- 
vented the  night  before  upon  going  to  bed.  Amedee 
soon  became  tired  of  these  braggarts  and  lunatics,  and 
no  longer  went  to  the  Cafe  de  Seville.  He  lived  alone 
and  shut  himself  up  in  his  discouragement,  and  he 
had  never  perhaps  had  it  weigh  more  heavily  upon 
his  shoulders  than  this  morning  of  the  second  of  De- 
cember, the  last  day  of  the  battle  of  Champigny,  while 
he  was  sadly  promenading  before  the  stacked  guns  of 
his  battalion. 

The  dark  clouds,  heavy  with  snow,  were  hurrying 
by,  the  tormenting  rumble  of  the  cannons,  the  muddy 
country,  the  crumbling  buildings,  and  these  vanquished 
soldiers  shivering  under  their  rags,  all  threw  the  poet 
into  the  most  gloomy  of  reveries.  Then  humanity  so 
many  ages,  centuries,  perhaps,  old,  had  only  reached 
this  point:  Hatred,  absurd  war,  fratricidal  murder! 

[230] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

Progress?  Civilization?  Mere  words!  No  rest,  no 
peaceful  repose,  either  in  fraternity  or  love!  The  prim- 
itive brute  always  reappears,  the  right  of  the  stronger 
to  hold  in  its  clutches  the  pale  cadaver  of  justice! 
What  is  the  use  of  so  many  religions,  philosophies,  all 
the  noble  dreams,  all  the  grand  impulses  of  the  thought 
toward  the  ideal  and  good?  This  horrible  doctrine 
of  the  pessimists  was  true  then!  We  are,  then,  like 
animals,  eternally  condemned  to  kill  each  other  in 
order  to  live?  If  that  is  so,  one  might  as  well  re- 
nounce life, and  give  up  the  ghost!  .... 

Meanwhile  the  cannonading  now  redoubled,  and 
with  its  tragic  grumbling  was  mingled  the  dry  crackling 
sound  of  the  musketry ;  beyond  a  wooded  hillock,  which 
restricted  the  view  toward  the  southeast,  a  very  thick 
white  smoke  spread  over  the  horizon,  mounting  up 
into  the  gray  sky.  The  fight  had  just  been  resumed 
there,  and  it  was  getting  hot,  for  soon  the  ambulances 
and  army- wagons  drawn  by  artillery  men  began  to  pass. 
They  were  full  of  the  wounded,  whose  plaintive  moans 
were  heard  as  they  passed.  They  had  crowded  the 
least  seriously  wounded  ones  into  the  omnibus,-  which 
went  at  a  foot  pace,  but  the  road  had  been  broken 
up  by  the  bad  weather,  and  it  was  pitiful  to  behold 
these  heads  shaken  as  they  passed  over  each  rut. 
The  sight  of  the  dying  extended  upon  bloody  mat- 
tresses was  still  more  lugubrious  to  see.  The  fright- 
ful procession  of  the  slaughtered  went  slowly  toward 
the  city  to  the  hospitals,  but  the  carriages  sometimes 
stopped,  only  a  hundred  steps  from  the  position  occu- 
pied by  the  National  Guards,  before  a  house  where 

[231] 


FRANCOIS  COPPEE 

a  provisionary  hospital  had  been  established,  and  left 
their  least  transportable  ones  there.  The  morbid 
but  powerful  attraction  that  horrible  sights  exert  over 
a  man  urged  Amedee  Violette  to  this  spot.  This  house 
had  been  spared  from  bombardment  and  protected 
from  pillage  and  fire  by  the  Geneva  flag;  it  was  a 
small  cottage  which  realized  the  dream  of  every  shop- 
keeper after  he  has  made  his  fortune.  Nothing  was 
lacking,  not  even  the  earthen  lions  at  the  steps,  or  the 
little  garden  with  its  glittering  weather-vane,  or  the 
rock-work  basin  for  goldfish.  On  warm  days  the 
past  summer  passers-by  might  have  seen  very  often, 
under  the  green  arbor,  bourgeoisie  in  their  shirt-sleeves 
and  women  in  light  dresses  eating  melons  together. 
The  poet's  imagination  fancied  at  once  this  picture  of 
a  Parisian's  Sunday,  when  suddenly  a  young  assistant 
appeared  at  an  open  window  on  the  first  floor,  wiping 
his  hands  upon  his  blood-stained  apron.  He  leaned 
out  and  called  to  a  hospital  attendant,  that  Amedee 
had  not  noticed  before,  who  was  cutting  linen  upon  a 
table  in  the  garden: 

"Well,  Vidal,  you  confounded  dawdler,"  ex- 
claimed he,  impatiently,  "are  those  bandages  ready? 
Good  God!  are  we  to  have  them  to-day  or  to- 
morrow?" 

"Make  room,  if  you  please!"  said  at  this  moment 
a  voice  at  Amedee's  elbow,  who  stepped  aside  for  two 
stretchers  borne  by  four  brothers  of  the  Christian  doc- 
trine to  pass.  The  poet  gave  a  start  and  a  cry  of 
terror.  He  recognized  in  the  two  wounded  men  Mau- 
rice Roger  and  Colonel  Lantz. 

[  232  ] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

Wounded,  both  of  them,  yes!  and  mortally.  Only 
one  hour  ago. 

Affairs  had  turned  out  badly  for  us  down  there, 
then,  on  the  borders  of  the  Marne.  They  did  a  foolish 
thing  to  rest  one  day  and  give  the  enemy  time  to  con- 
centrate his  forces;  when  they  wished  to  renew  the 
attack  they  dashed  against  vast  numbers  and  for- 
midable artillery.  Two  generals  killed!  So  many 
brave  men  sacrificed!  Now  they  beat  a  retreat  once 
more  and  lose  the  ground.  One  of  the  chief  generals, 
with  lowered  head  and  drooping  shoulders,  more  from 
discouragement  than  fatigue,  stood  glass  in  hand,  ob- 
serving from  a  distance  our  lines,  which  were  break- 
ing. 

"If  we  could  fortify  ourselves  there  at  least,"  said 
he,  pointing  to  an  eminence  which  overlooked  the 
river,  "and  establish  a  redoubt — in  one  night  with  a 
hundred  picks  it  could  be  done.  I  do  not  believe  that 
the  enemy's  fire  could  reach  this  position — it  is  a  good 
one." 

"We  could  go  there  and  see,  General,"  said  some 
one,  very  quietly. 

It  was  Pere  Lantz,  the  "old  dolphin,"  who  was 
standing  there  with  Maurice  beside  him  and  three  or 
four  of  the  auxiliary  engineers;  and,  upon  my  word, 
in  spite  of  his  cap,  which  seemed  to  date  from  the 
time  of  Horace  Vernet's  "Smala,"  the  poor  man,  with 
his  glasses  upon  his  nose,  long  cloak,  and  pepper- 
colored  beard,  had  no  more  prestige  than  a  policeman 
in  a  public  square,  one  of  those  old  fellows  who  chase 

[233] 


FRANCOIS  COPPfiE 

children  off  the  grass,   threatening  them  with  their 
canes. 

"When  I  say  that  the  German  artillery  will  not 
reach  there,"  murmured  the  head  general,  "I  am  not 
sure  of  it.  But  you  are  right,  Colonel.  We  must 
see.  Send  two  of  your  men." 

"With  your  permission,  General,"  said  Pere  Lantz, 
"I  will  go  myself."  Maurice  bravely  added  at  once: 

"Not  without  me,  Colonel!" 

"As  you  please,"  said  the  General,  who  had  already 
pointed  his  glass  upon  another  point  of  the  battle- 
field. 

Followed  by  the  only  son  of  his  companion  in  arms 
in  Africa  and  the  Crimea,  this  office  clerk  and  dauber 
in  water-colors  walked  to  the  front  as  tranquilly  as  he 
would  have  gone  to  the  minister's  office  with  his  um- 
brella under  his  arm.  At  the  very  moment  when  the 
two  officers  reached  the  plateau,  a  projectile  from  the 
Prussian  batteries  fell  upon  a  chest  and  blew  it  up 
with  a  frightful  uproar.  The  dead  and  wounded 
were  heaped  upon  the  ground.  Pere  Lantz  saw  the 
foot-soldiers  fleeing,  and  the  artillery  men  harnessing 
their  wagons. 

"What!"  exclaimed  he,  rising  up  to  his  full  height, 
"do  they  abandon  the  position?" 

The  Colonel's  face  was  transfigured;  opening  wide 
his  long  cloak  and  showing  his  black  velvet  plastron 
upon  which  shone  his  commander's  cross,  he  drew  his 
sword,  and,  putting  his  cap  upon  the  tip  of  it,  bare- 
headed, with  his  gray  hair  floating  in  the  wind,  with 
open  arms  he  threw  himself  before  the  runaways. 

[234] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

"Halt!"  he  commanded,  in  a  thundering  tone. 
"Turn  about,  wretches,  turn  about!  You  are  here  at 
a  post  of  honor.  Form  again,  my  men!  Gunners, 
to  your  places!  Long  life  to  France!" 

Just  then  a  new  shell  burst  at  the  feet  of  the  Colonel 
and  of  Maurice,  and  they  both  fell  to  the  ground. 

Ame"dee,  staggering  with  emotion  and  a  heart  burst- 
ing with  grief  and  fear,  entered  the  hospital  behind  the 
two  litters. 

"Put  them  in  the  dining-room,"  said  one  of  the 
brothers.  "There  is  nobody  there.  The  doctor  will 
come  immediately." 

The  young  man  with  the  bloody  apron  came  in  at 
once,  and  after  a  look  at  the  wounded  man  he  gave 
a  despairing  shake  of  the  head,  and,  shrugging  his 
shoulders,  said: 

"There  is  nothing  to  be  done — they  will  not  last 
long." 

In  fact,  the  Colonel  was  dying.  They  had  thrown 
an  old  woollen  covering  over  him  through  which  the 
hemorrhage  showed  itself  by  large  stains  of  blood 
which  were  constantly  increasing  and  penetrating  the 
cloth.  The  wounded  man  seemed  to  be  coming  out 
of  his  faint;  he  half  opened  his  eyes,  and  his  lips 
moved. 

The  doctor,  who  had  just  come  in,  came  up  to  the 
litter  upon  which  the  old  officer  was  lying  and  leaned 
over  him. 

"Did  you  wish  to  say  anything?"  he  asked. 

The  old  Colonel,  without  moving  his  head,  turned 
[235] 


FRANCOIS 

his  sad  gaze  upon  the  surgeon,  oh!  so  sad,  and  in  a 
voice  scarcely  to  be  heard  he  murmured: 

"Three  daughters — to  marry — without  a  dowry! 
Three— three 1" 

Then  he  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  his  blue  eyes  paled  and 
became  glassy.  Colonel  Lantz  was  dead. 

Do  not  despair,  old  military  France!  You  will 
always  have  these  simple-hearted  soldiers  who  are 
ready  to  sacrifice  themselves  for  your  flag,  ready  to 
serve  you  for  a  morsel  of  bread,  and  to  die  for  you, 
bequeathing  their  widows  and  orphans  to  you!  Do 
not  despair,  old  France  of  the  one  hundred  years'  war 
and  of  '92! 

The  brothers,  who  wore  upon  their  black  robes  the 
red  Geneva  cross,  were  kneeling  around  the  body  and 
praying  in  a  low  tone.  The  assistant  surgeon  noticed 
Ame'dee  Violette  for  the  first  time,  standing  motionless 
in  a  corner  of  the  room. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here  ?  "  he  asked  him,  brusquely. 

"I  am  this  poor  officer's  friend,"  Ame'dee  replied, 
pointing  to  Maurice. 

"So  be  it!  stay  with  him — if  he  asks  for  a  drink  you 
have  the  tea  there  upon  the  stove.  You,  gentlemen," 
added  he,  addressing  the  brothers,  who  arose  after 
making  the  sign  of  the  cross,  "you  will  return  to  the 
battle-field,  I  suppose?" 

They  silently  bowed  their  heads,  the  eldest  of  them 
closed  the  dead  man's  eyes.  As  they  were  all  going 
out  together,  the  assistant  surgeon  said  to  them,  in  a 
petulant  tone  of  voice: 

"Try  to  bring  me  some  not  quite  so  much  used  up." 
[236] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

Maurice  Roger  was  about  to  die,  too.  His  shirt 
was  stained  with  blood,  and  a  stream  ran  down  from 
his  forehead  upon  his  blond  moustache,  but  he  was 
still  beautiful  in  his  marble-like  pallor.  Amede'e  care- 
fully raised  up  one  of  the  wounded  man's  arms  and 
placed  it  upon  the  stretcher,  keeping  his  friend's  hand 
in  his  own.  Maurice  moved  slightly  at  the  touch, 
and  ended  by  opening  his  eyes. 

"Ah,  how  thirsty  I  am!"  he  groaned. 

Ame'dee  went  to  the  stove  and  got  the  pot  of  tea, 
and  leaned  over  to  help  the  unfortunate  man  drink 
it.  Maurice  looked  at  him  with  surprise.  He  re- 
cognized Ame'dee. 

"You,  Ame'dee! — where  am  I,  then?" 

He  attemped  in  vain  to  rise.  His  head  dropped 
slightly  to  the  left,  and  he  saw,  not  two  steps  from 
him,  the  lifeless  body  of  his  old  colonel,  with  eyes 
closed  and  features  already  calmed  by  the  first  mo- 
ments of  perfect  repose. 

"My  Colonel!"  said  he.  "Ah!  I  understand— I 
remember !  How  they  ran  away — miserable  cow- 
ards! But  you,  Ame'dee?  Why  are  you  here ?" 

His  friend  could  not  restrain  his  tears,  and  Maurice 
murmured : 

"Done  for,  am  I  not?" 

"No,  no!"  exclaimed  Ame'de'e,  with  animation. 
"They  are  going  to  dress  your  wounds  at  once — 
They  will  come  soon!  Courage,  my  good  Maurice! 
Courage!" 

Suddenly  the  wounded  man  had  a  terrible  chill; 
his  teeth  chattered,  and  he  said  again: 

[237] 


FRANCOIS 

"I  am  thirsty! — something  to  drink,  my  friend! — 
give  me  something  to  drink!" 

A  few  swallows  of  tea  calmed  him  a  little.  He 
closed  his  eyes  as  if  to  rest,  but  a  moment  after  he 
opened  them,  and,  fixing  them  upon  his  friend's  face, 
he  said  to  him  in  a  faint  voice: 

"You  know — Maria,  my  wife — marry  her — I  con- 
fide them  to  you — she  and  my  son ' 

Then,  doubtless  tired  out  by  the  fatigue  of  having 
spoken  these  words,  he  seemed  to  collapse  and  sink 
down  into  the  litter,  which  was  saturated  now  with 
his  blood.  A  moment  later  he  began  to  pant  for 
breath.  Amedee  knelt  by  his  side,  and  tears  fell  upon 
his  hands,  while  between  the  dying  man's  gasps  he  could 
hear  in  the  distance,  upon  the  battle-field,  the  unin- 
terrupted rumbling  of  the  cannon  as  it  mowed  down 
others. 


[238] 


CHAPTER  XVII 

"WHEN  YOUTH,  THE  DREAM,  DEPARTS" 

"HE  leaves  are  falling! 

This  October  afternoon  is  de- 
liciously  serene,  there  is  not  a  cloud 
in  the  grayish-blue  sky,  where  the 
sun,  which  has  shed  a  pure  and 
steady  light  since  morning,  has  be- 
gun majestically  to  decline,  like  a 
good  king  who  has  grown  old  after 
a  long  and  prosperous  reign.  How  soft  the  air  is! 
How  calm  and  fresh!  This  is  certainly  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  of  autumn  days.  Below,  in  the  valley, 
the  river  sparkles  like  liquid  silver,  and  the  trees  which 
crown  the  hill-tops  are  of  a  lurid  gold  and  copper 
color.  The  distant  panorama  of  Paris  is  grand  and 
charming,  with  all  its  noted  edifices  and  the  dome  of 
the  Invalides  shining  like  gold  outlined  upon  the 
horizon.  As  a  loving  and  coquettish  woman,  who 
wishes  to  be  regretted,  gives  at  the  moment  of  depart- 
ure her  most  intoxicating  smile  to  a  friend,  so  the 
close  of  autumn  had  put  on  for  one  of  her  last  days  all 
her  splendid  charms. 
But  the  leaves  are  falling! 

Ame*dee  Violette  is  walking  alone  in  his  garden  at 
Meudon.    It  is  his  country  home,  where  he  has  lived 

[239] 


FRANCOIS  COPPtiE 

for  eight  years.  A  short  time  after  the  close  of  the 
war  he  married  Maurice's  widow.  He  is  walking 
upon  the  terrace  planted  with  lindens  that  are  now 
more  than  half -despoiled  of  their  leaves,  admiring  the 
beautiful  picture  and  thinking. 

He  is  celebrated,  he  has  worked  hard  and  has  built 
up  a  reputation  by  good,  sincere  books,  as  a  poet. 
Doubtless,  some  persons  are  still  jealous  of  him,  and 
he  is  often  treated  with  injustice,  but  he  is  estimated 
by  the  dignity  of  his  life,  which  his  love  of  art  fills 
entirely,  and  he  occupies  a  superior  position  in  liter- 
rature.  Although  his  resources  are  modest,  they  are 
sufficient  to  exempt  him  from  anxieties  of  a  trivial 
nature.  Living  far  from  society,  in  the  close  intimacy 
of  those  that  he  loves,  he  does  not  know  the  miseries 
of  ambition  and  vanity.  Amedee  Violette  should  be 
happy. 

His  old  friend,  Paul  Sillery,  who  breakfasted  with 
him  that  morning  in  Meudon,  is  condemned  to  daily 
labor  and  the  exhausting  life  of  a  journalist ;  and  when 
he  was  seated  in  the  carriage  which  took  him  back  to 
Paris  that  morning,  to  forced  labor,  to  the  article  to 
be  knocked  off  for  to-morrow,  in  the  midst  of  the 
racket  and  chattering  of  an  editor's  office,  beside  an 
interrupted  cigar  laid  upon  the  edge  of  a  table,  he 
heaved  a  deep  sigh  as  he  thought  of  Amedee. 

Ah,  this  Violette  was  to  be  envied!  With  money, 
home,  and  a  family,  he  was  not  obliged  to  disseminate 
his  ideas  right  and  left.  He  had  leisure,  and  could 
stop  when  he  was  not  in  the  spirit  of  writing ;  he  could 
think  before  he  wrote  and  do  some  good  work.  It 

[240] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

was  not  astonishing,  to  be  sure,  that  he  produced 
veritable  works  of  art  when  he  is  cheered  by  the  at- 
mosphere of  affection.  First,  he  adores  his  wife,  that 
is  easily  seen,  and  he  looks  upon  Maurice's  little  son 
as  his  own,  the  little  fellow  is  so  pretty  and  attractive 
with  his  long,  light  curls.  Certainly,  one  can  see  that 
Madame  Violette  has  a  never-to-be-forgotten  grief, 
but  what  a  kind  and  grateful  glance  she  gives  her 
husband!  Could  anything  be  more  touching  than 
Louise  Gerard,  that  excellent  old  maid,  the  life  of  the 
house,  who  has  the  knack  of  making  pleasing  order 
and  elegant  comfort  reign  in  the  house,  while  she  sur- 
rounds her  mother,  the  paralytic  Grandmother  Gerard, 
with  every  care?  Truly,  Amedee  has  arranged  his 
life  well.  He  loves  and  is  loved:  he  has  procured 
for  mind  and  body  valuable  and  certain  customs.  He 
is  a  wise  and  fortunate  man. 

While  Paul  Sillery,  buried  in  the  corner  of  a  car- 
riage, allowed  himself  to  be  almost  carried  away  by 
jealousy  of  his  friend,  Amed6e,  detained  by  the  charm 
of  this  beautiful  day  which  is  drawing  to  a  close, 
walks  with  slow,  lingering  steps  under  the  lindens  on 
the  terrace. 

The  leaves  are  falling  around  him! 

A  very  slight  breeze  is  rising,  the  blue  sky  is  fading 
a  little  below;  in  the  nearest  Paris  suburb  the  windows 
are  shining  in  the  oblique  rays  of  the  setting  sun.  It 
will  soon  be  night,  and  upon  this  carpet  of  dead 
leaves,  which  crackle  under  the  poet's  tread,  other 
leaves  will  fall.  They  fall  rarely,  slowly,  but  con- 
tinually. The  frost  of  the  night  before  has  blighted 
16  [  241  ] 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

them  all.  Dried  up  and  rusty,  they  barely  hang  to 
the  trees,  so  that  the  slightest  wind  that  passes  over 
them  gathers  them  one  after  another,  detaching  them 
from  their  branches;  whirling  an  instant  in  the  golden 
light,  they  at  last  rejoin,  with  a  sad  little  sound,  their 
withered  sisters,  who  sprinkle  the  gravel  walks.  The 
leaves  fall,  the  leaves  fall! 

Ame"de*e  Violette  is  filled  with  melancholy. 

He  ought  to  be  happy.  What  can  he  reproach  des- 
tiny with?  Has  he  not  the  one  he  always  desired  for 
his  wife?  Is  she  not  the  sweetest  and  best  of  com- 
panions for  him?  Yes!  but  he  knows  very  well  that 
she  consented  to  marry  him  in  order  to  obey  Maurice's 
last  wish,  he  knows  very  well  that  Maria's  heart  is 
buried  in  the  soldier's  grave  at  Champigny.  She  has 
set  apart  a  sanctuary  within  herself  where  burns,  as 
a  perpetual  light,  the  remembrance  of  the  adored 
dead,  of  the  man  to  whom  she  gave  herself  without 
reserve,  the  father  of  her  son,  the  hero  who  tore  him- 
self from  her  arms  to  shed  his  blood  for  his  country. 

Ame*dee  may  be  certain  of  the  gratitude  and  devo- 
tion of  his  wife,  but  he  never  will  have  her  love,  for 
Maurice,  a  posthumous  rival,  rises  between  them. 
Ah,  this  Maurice!  He  had  loved  Maria  very  little  or 
not  very  faithfully !  She  should  remember  that  he  had 
first  betrayed  her,  that  but  for  Amedee  he  would  have 
abandoned  her  and  she  never  would  have  been  his 
wife.  If  she  knew  that  in  Paris  when  she  was  far 
away  he  had  deceived  her!  But  she  never  would 
know  anything  of  it,  for  Ame"dee  has  too  much  deli- 
cacy to  hurt  the  memory  of  the  dead,  and  he  respects 

[242] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

and  even  admires  this  fidelity  of  illusion  and  love  in 
Maria.  He  suffers  from  it.  The  one  to  whom  he 
has  given  his  name,  his  heart,  and  his  life,  is  incon- 
solable, and  he  must  be  resigned  to  it.  Although  re- 
married, she  is  a  widow  at  the  bottom  of  her  heart, 
and  it  is  in  vain  that  she  puts  on  bright  attire,  her  eyes 
and  her  smile  are  in  mourning  forever. 

How  could  she  forget  her  Maurice  when  he  is  be- 
fore her  every  day  in  her  son,  who  is  also  named 
Maurice  and  whose  bright,  handsome  face  strikingly 
resembles  his  father's?  Ame'dee  feels  a  presentiment 
that  in  a  few  years  this  child  will  be  another  Maurice, 
with  the  same  attractions  and  vices.  The  poet  does 
not  forget  that  his  dying  friend  confided  the  orphan 
to  him,  and  he  endeavors  to  be  kind  and  good  to 
him  and  to  bring  him  up  well.  He  sometimes  has  a 
feeling  of  sorrow  when  he  discovers  the  same  instincts 
and  traits  in  the  child  as  in  the  man  whom  he  had 
so  dearly  loved  and  who  had  made  him  such  trouble; 
in  spite  of  all,  he  can  not  feel  the  sentiments  of  a  father 
for  another's  son.  His  own  union  has  been  sterile. 

Poor  Ame'de'e!  Yet  he  is  envied!  The  little  joy 
that  he  has  is  mingled  with  grief  and  sorrow,  and  he 
dares  not  confide  it  to  the  excellent  Louise — who  sus- 
pects it,  however — whose  old  and  secret  attachment 
for  him  he  surmises  now,  and  who  is  the  good  genius 
of  his  household.  Had  he  only  realized  it  before! 
It  might  have  been  happiness,  genuine  happiness  for 
him! 

The  leaves  fall!  the  leaves  fall! 

After  breakfast,  while  they  were  smoking  their  cig- 
[243] 


FRANCOIS  COPPfcE 

ars  and  walking  along  beside  the  masses  of  dahlias, 
upon  which  the  large  golden  spider  had  spun  its  sil- 
very web,  Ame'dee  Violette  and  Paul  Sillery  had  talked 
of  times  past  and  the  comrades  of  their  youth.  It  was 
not  a  very  gay  conversation,  for  since  then  there  had 
been  the  war,  the  Commune.  How  many  were  dead! 
How  many  had  disappeared!  And,  then,  this  retro- 
spective review  proves  to  one  that  one  can  be  entirely 
deceived  as  to  certain  people,  and  that  chance  is  mas- 
ter. 

Such  an  one,  whom  they  had  once  considered  as  a 
great  prose  writer,  as  the  leader  of  a  sect,  and  whose 
doctrines  of  art  five  or  six  faithful  disciples  spread 
while  copying  his  waistcoats  and  even  imitating  his 
manner  of  speaking  with  closed  teeth,  is  reduced  to 
writing  stories  for  obscene  journals.  "Chos«,"  the 
fiery  revolutionist,  had  obtained  a  good  place;  and  the 
modest  "Machin,"  a  man  hardly  noticed  in  the  clubs, 
had  published  two  exquisite  books,  genuine  works  of 
art. 

All  of  the  "beards"  and  "long-haired"  men  had 
taken  unexpected  paths.  But  the  politicians,  above 
all,  were  astonishing  in  the  variety  of  their  destinies. 
Among  the  cafe's  frequenters  at  the  hour  for  absinthe 
one  could  count  eight  deputies,  three  ministers,  two 
ambassadors,  one  treasurer,  and  thirty  exiles  at  Nou- 
mea awaiting  the  long-expected  amnesty.  The  most 
interesting,  everything  considered,  is  that  imbecile, 
that  old  fanatic  of  a  Dubief,  the  man  that  never  drank 
anything  but  sweetened  water;  for  he,  at  least,  was 
shot  on  the  barricades  by  the  Versaillese  soldiers. 

[244] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

One  person  of  whom  the  very  thought  disgusted  the 
two  friends  was  that  jumping- jack  of  an  Arthur  Pa- 
pillon.  Universal  suffrage,  with  its  accustomed  in- 
telligence, had  not  failed  to  elect  this  nonentity  and 
bombastic  fool,  and  to-day  he  flounders  about  like  a 
fish  out  of  water  in  the  midst  of  this  political  cess- 
pool. Having  been  enriched  by  a  large  dowry,  he 
has  been  by  turns  deputy,  secretary,  vice-president, 
president,  head  of  committees,  under  secretary  of 
State,  in  one  word,  everything  that  it  was  possible  to 
be.  For  the  time  being  he  rants  against  the  clergy, 
and  his  wife,  who  is  ugly,  rich,  and  pious,  has  just 
put  their  little  girl  into  the  Oiseaux  school.  He  has 
jiot  yet  become  minister,  but  rest  assured  he  will  reach 
that  in  time.  He  is  very  vain,  full  of  confidence  in 
himself,  not  more  honest  than  necessary,  and  very 
obtrusive.  Unless  in  the  meantime  they  decide  to  es- 
tablish a  rotation  providing  that  all  the  deputies  be 
ministers  by  turns,  Arthur  Papillon  is  the  inevitable, 
necessary  man  mentioned.  In  such  a  case,  this  would 
be  terrible,  for  his  eloquence  would  flow  in  torrents, 
and  he  would  be  one  of  the  most  agitating  of  microbei 
in  the  parliamentary  culture. 

And  Jocquelet?  Ah!  the  two  friends  only  need  to 
speak  his  name  to  burst  into  peals  of  laughter,  for 
the  illustrious  actor  now  fills  the  universe  with  his 
glory  and  ridiculousness.  Jocquelet  severed  the  chain 
some  time  ago  which  bound  him  to  the  Parisian 
theatres.  Like  the  tricolored  flag,  he  has  made  the 
tour  of  Europe  several  times;  like  the  English  stand- 
ard, he  has  crossed  every  ocean.  He  is  the  modern 

[245] 


FRANCOIS  COPPEE 

Wandering  Actor,  and  the  capitals  of  the  Old  World 
and  both  Americas  watch  breathless  with  desire  for 
him  to  deign  to  shower  over  them  the  manna  of  his 
monologues.  At  Chicago,  they  detached  his  loco- 
motive, and  he  intended,  at  the  sight  of  this  homage 
proportioned  to  his  merits,  to  become  a  naturalized 
American  citizen.  But  they  proposed  a  new  tour  for 
him  in  old  Europe,  and  out  of  filial  remembrance  he 
consented  to  return  once  more  among  us.  As  usual, 
he  gathered  a  cartload  of  gold  and  laurels.  He  was 
painfully  surprised  upon  reaching  Stockholm  by  water 
not  to  be  greeted  by  the  squadrons  with  volleys  of 
artillery,  as  was  once  done  in  honor  of  a  famous  can- 
tatrice.  Let  Diplomacy  look  sharp!  Jocquelet  is  in- 
different to  the  court  of  Sweden! 

After  Paul  Sillery's  departure  Ame*dee  turned  over 
in  his  mind  various  other  recollections  of  former  days. 
He  has  been  a  trifle  estranged  from  Madame  Roger 
since  his  marriage  to  Maria,  but  he  sometimes  takes 
little  Maurice  to  see  her.  She  has  sheltered  and  given 
each  of  Colonel  Lantz's  daughters  a  dowry.  Pretty 
Rosine  Combarieu's  face  rises  up  before  him,  his 
childhood's  companion,  whom  he  met  at  Bullier's  and 
never  has  seen  since.  What  has  become  of  the  poor 
little  creature?  Amedee  almost  hopes  that  she  is 
dead.  Ah,  how  sad  these  old  memories  are  in  the 
autumn,  when  the  leaves  are  falling  and  the  sun  is 
setting ! 

It  has  set,  it  has  plunged  beneath  the  horizon,  and 
suddenly  all  is  dark.  Over  the  darkened  landscape 
in  the  vast  pearl-colored  sky  spreads  the  melancholy 

[246] 


A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

chill  which  follows  the  farewell  of  day.  The  white 
smoke  from  the  city  has  turned  gray,  the  river  is  like 
a  dulled  mirror.  A  moment  ago,  in  the  sun's  last 
rays,  the  dead  leaves,  as  they  fell,  looked  like  a  golden 
rain,  now  they  seem  a  dark  snow. 

Where  are  all  your  illusions  and  hopes  of  other 
days,  Amedee  Violette?  You  think  this  evening  of 
the  rapid  flight  of  years,  of  the  snowy  flakes  of  winter 
which  are  beginning  to  fall  on  your  temples.  You 
have  the  proof  to-day  of  the  impossibility  of  abso- 
lutely requited  love  in  this  world.  You  know  that 
happiness,  or  what  is  called  so,  exists  only  by  snatches 
and  lasts  only  a  moment,  and  how  commonplace  it 
often  is  and  how  sad  the  next  day!  You  depend  up- 
on your  art  for  consolation.  Oppressed  by  the  mo- 
notonous ennui  of  living,  you  ask  for  the  forgetfulness 
that  only  the  intoxication  of  poetry  and  dreams  can 
give  you.  Alas!  Poor  sentimentalist,  your  youth  is 
ended! 

And  still  the  leaves  fall! 


[247] 


RESTITUTION 


RESTITUTION 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  HONEST  THIEF 

how  cold  it  was!  One  could  cut 
the  fog  with  a  knife!  It  was  a  true 
Christmas  Eve  fog,  in  which,  al- 
though it  was  hardly  four  o'clock, 
the  gas  had  just  been  lighted  and 
danced  in  yellowish  flames.  The 
passers  looked  like  fantastic  shadows 
hastening  along  the  pavement,  hands 
in  pockets,  their  coat-collars  turned  up,  and  stamping 
the  pavement  as  if  they  were  angry. 

And  how  they  coughed,  and  how  they  sneezed! 
Catarrh  reigned  supreme  in  the  noisy  throng  all  along 
the  Chaussee  d'Antin  —  atchou !  The  cab-driver, 
bending  forward  under  his  cloak,  the  milliner's  little 
assistant  shivering  under  her  imitation  astrakhan,  the 
street-boys  warming  their  hands  at  the  roast-chestnut 
fire,  the  gentleman  well  wrapped  in  his  heavy  topcoat 
— all  were  suffering  from  bronchitis  or  colds  in  the 
head.  A  bitter  Christmas  indeed!  How  comforting 
it  is  to  think  that  Bethlehem  enjoys  a  temperate  climate, 
and  that  Christ  was  born  there  in  a  stable,  where  the 
breath  of  an  ox  or  an  ass  could  warm  his  cold  limbs. 

[251] 


FRANCOIS  COPPfiE 

Suppose  the  event  had  taken  place  in  this  frightful 
climate  of  Paris  at  the  same  time  of  the  year — the 
time  when  builders  are  idlest,  when  the  poor  carpenter 
is  divested  of  everything,  especially  of  wood  and  coals 
to  keep  him  warm.  A  newly  born  child  would  have 
had  little  chance  of  life.  And  would  not  that  have 
been  a  pity?  For,  apart  from  any  idea  of  religion, 
and  of  the  doctrine  which  has  comforted  mankind  for 
nineteen  hundred  years,  nothing  could  be  more  touch- 
ing than  this  Christmas  festival,  this  universal  joy  to 
celebrate  the  birth  of  a  child. 

On  these  misty  winter  days,  it  is  pleasant  to  remain 
at  home;  and,  in  his  humble  apartments  on  the  third 
story  of  a  house  in  the  Rue  Clichy,  the  Abbe  Moulin, 
the  old  cure  of  Trinity  Church,  sat  almost  asleep,  his 
feet  near  the  fire,  reading  his  breviary.  This  priest 
Moulin  was  indeed  an  excellent  man,  but  very  simple. 
There  was  no  fear  that  he  would  ever  set  the  Seine  on 
fire,  but,  with  his  humble  faith  and  candid  virtue,  he 
was  an  exception  to  the  Paris  clergy,  who  have  very 
worldly,  not  to  say  sceptical,  ideas. 

Abbe  Moulin  had  worked  principally  in  the  suburbs, 
and  had  shown  his  great  charity  in  these  populous 
districts;  in  fact,  he  had  given  all  he  possessed — a 
patrimony  of  several  thousand  pounds — to  his  beloved 
poor.  It  was  even  said  that  he  had  contracted  some 
small  debts  which  he  found  it  rather  difficult  to  pay. 

And  who  could  censure  him  ?  For  is  not  the  truest 
and  best  kind  of  socialism  that  which  makes  one  bor- 
row to  relieve  misery,  and  become  insolvent  to  help  a 
fellow-creature  ? 

[252] 


Abbe  Moulin,   the  old  Curl,   almost  asleep, 
sat  near  tht  fire 


[From  fbe  Original  Pointing  by  N    Briganti.] 


this  frightful 
'lie  year 

irpenter 
K!  and 
:hild  would  have 

.  OU]  : 

lea  of  r 

c  touch- 
universal  joy  to 

it  is  pleasant  to  remain 
apartments  on  the  th 
WWil^llc 
almost  asleep,  his 

VI  '«*  ,n«n-,^^n-teV^rX^]This  .  ( 

man,  but  very  sinr 
dd  ever  set  the  Seine  OD 
-iith  and  candid  virtue,  he 
who  have  very 

>ally  in  the  suburbs, 

v  in  these  populous 

ill   lie  possessed — a 

his  beloved 

contracted  some 


•&K  &•? 

w  i  help  a 


RESTITUTION 

Those  in  high  places,  though  they  smiled  at  him, 
esteemed  him;  and  when  he  became  penniless  he  got 
appointed  to  the  curacy  of  the  rich  parish  of  Trinity, 
where,  at  least,  there  was  no  fear  of  his  dying  of  hun- 
ger, as  he  was  sure  of  having  many  invitations  to  din- 
ner. He  did  not  object  to  this  good  fortune,  but  ran 
at  once  to  thank  the  archbishop,  and  made  arrange- 
ments to  dine  every  week  with  a  stock-broker,  with  an 
auctioneer  whose  wife  was  pious,  and  also  with  an 
actress  who  had  had  to  leave  the  stage  on  account  of 
her  obesity  and  had  turned  to  religion.  The  poor  old 
Abbe*  did  not  care  much  about  the  pleasures  of  the 
table,  and  was  all  the  time  inwardly  regretting  his  old 
parishioners — the  ragpickers  of  the  Butte  aux  Cailles, 
whom  he  used  to  go  to  visit  at  dusk,  carrying  a  basket- 
ful of  sugar,  coffee,  woollen  stockings,  knitted  waist- 
coats, medicines,  etc. — and  every  morning  on  waking 
he  tenderly  contemplated,  on  the  wall  of  his  bedroom, 
a  crucifix  made  of  mussel-shells,  a  dear  keepsake  pre- 
sented by  his  ragpickers. 

The  character  of  this  humble  priest  was  soon  read 
by  his  vicar,  a  proud  man  of  fifty  years  of  age,  with  the 
high  notions  of  a  prelate  or  a  great  lord,  who  prided 
himself  on  the  striking  likeness  he  bore  to  the  comedian 
Bressant.  The  Abbe"  Moulin  was  a  dull  preacher, 
and  was  soon  removed  from  the  pulpit;  consequently 
all  the  most  disagreeable  and  worrying  duties  fell  to 
his  share — catechism,  funerals,  and  the  very  early  and 
very  late  masses.  His  penitents  were  those  disliked 
and  discarded  by  his  fellow-priests;  and  his  evangelical 
patience  was  sorely  tried  by  having  to  listen  to  the 

[253] 


FRANCOIS  COPPEE 

secret  complaints  of  maids  against  their  mistresses, 
and  of  the  mistresses  against  the  maids.  But  he  was 
one  of  those  sincere  Christians  who  take  all  their 
troubles  to  God. 

To  speak  thus  kindly  of  a  Catholic  priest  may  cause 
the  Freemasons  who  read  this  book  to  think  me  a 
priest-ridden  creature.  To  them  I  frankly  admit  that 
I  consider  the  Abbe  Moulin  a  very  weak-minded  man, 
as  he  believed  implicitly  in  the  Immaculate  Concep- 
tion and  the  infallibility  of  the  Pope. 

Sitting  dozing  by  the  fire,  the  Abbe  Moulin  forgot 
for  a  while  his  open  breviary,  near  the  lamp,  and,  let- 
ting his  thoughts  wander  toward  his  old  parishioners, 
the  ragpickers  of  Butte  aux  Cailles,  who  were  so  desti- 
tute and  as  numerous  as  rabbits,  he  recalled  that  last 
Christmas,  when  he  was  still  among  them,  he  had  sold 
all  his  little  stock  so  that  he  might  be  able  to  give  the 
children  a  few  presents  of  boots  and  linen;  this  year 
his  purse  was  empty,  and  all  brightness  had  gone  from 
his  life.  At  the  last  dinner  given  by  the  auctioneer's 
wife,  when  there  were  such  splendid  crawfish  at  table, 
and  at  the  ex-actress's,  where  Leoville  of  '74  was  the 
sole  drink,  and  truffles  were  found  in  every  dish,  the 
good  old  priest  had  tried  to  make  a  charitable  appeal 
in  behalf  of  the  little  ragpickers;  but  he  had  done  it 
clumsily.  When,  in  order  to  create  pity  among  his 
hearers,  he  deplored  the  number  of  girl-mothers  in  the 
poorer  classes,  they  pursed  up  their  lips;  and  when  he 
spoke  to  the  actress  of  the  epidemic  raging  among  the 
children  of  the  districts  of  Mouffetard  and  Gentilly, 
she  exclaimed,  "How  horrible!"  and  nearly  fainted 

[254] 


RESTITUTION 

with  disgust.  After  that  the  dinner  lost  all  flavor. 
He  could  not  help  thinking  how  he  should  have  liked 
to  give  one  of  the  platefuls  of  pastry  to  the  marine- 
store  dealer's  five  little  orphans  who  were  living  with 
their  grandmother;  and  how  much  more  poor  little 
Celeste,  who  was  slowly  dying  from  anaemia  at  thirteen 
years  of  age,  needed  the  Leoville  of  1874  than  the  over- 
fed singer,  who  seemed  in  danger  of  bursting  from  ex- 
cess of  good  living.  Then  he  thought  of  Alexandrine, 
the  worker  in  imitation  pearls,  and  of  Josiah,  the  peat- 
maker,  who  were  engaged  to  be  married,  and  unless 
the  Abbe  Moulin,  who  had  prepared  them  both  for 
their  first  communion,  got  them  a  few  hundred  francs  to 
begin  housekeeping,  it  was  quite  likely  that  the  loving 
pair  would  dispense  with  the  ceremony  of  marriage. 

The  old  priest  had  got  thus  far  in  his  melancholy 
musings  when  he  was  disturbed  by  a  violent  ringing 
at  his  door.  Having  no  servant — he  made  his  own 
bed  and  got  the  doorkeeper  to  sweep  his  room  now 
and  then — he  went  to  open  the  door  himself,  and  was 
confronted  by  a  tall,  powerful,  jovial  man  wearing  a 
cloak  with  a  double  cape,  and  a  felt  hat  with  a  wide 
brim,  who  was  remarkable  chiefly  for  his  determined 
look  and  long  gray  beard;  the  upper  lip  was  close- 
shaven  in  American  fashion. 

"Have  I  the  honor  of  saluting  the  Reverend  Abbe 
Moulin?"  said  the  visitor,  taking  off  his  hat. 

"Yes,  Monsieur,"  replied  the  priest. 

"I  am  Adam  Harrison,  of  Chicago,  a  dealer  in  salt 
pork,  and  I  wish  to  have  a  short  interview  with  you. 
Don't  be  afraid  of  my  long  beard  and  informal  appeaf- 

[255] 


FRANCOIS  COPPtiE 

ance,"  he  added,  to  reassure  the  cure",  who  was  a  little 
surprised  by  this  unexpected  visit.  "The  little  ser- 
vice I  ask  of  you,  you  will,  I  hope,  render  very  readily, 
and  in  return  I  shall  not  forget  your  poor." 

By  these  words  the  unknown  man  at  once  obtained 
the  good  graces  of  the  priest,  who  hastened  to  conduct 
him  to  his  sitting-room,  and  gave  him  a  chair  near  the 
fire.  "Let  us  sit  down,  Monsieur,"  said  he,  with  a 
smile;  "and  kindly  let  me  know  in  what  way  I  can  be 
useful  to  you."  The  so-called  American  sat  down, 
threw  his  hat  on  the  carpet,  unbuttoned  his  ulster, 
crossed  his  legs — he  wore  heavy,  double-soled  boots — 
and  after  stroking  his  beard  said  abruptly:  "Do  you 
really  take  me  for  a  Yankee?" 

Suddenly  the  Abbe*  noticed  that  the  stranger  had  no 

foreign  accent.  "Well "  said  the  priest,  feeling 

embarrassed. 

"Well,"  replied  the  stranger,  "the  fact  is  that,  al- 
though I  sell  salt  pork  and  live  in  Chicago,  I  have  just 
arrived  by  the  express  direct  from  Havre.  My  name 
is  not  Adam  Harrison.  I  will  reveal  all  to  you.  I  am 
Renaudel,  the  ex-banker  of  the  Faubourg  Saint  Hon- 
or^, who,  in  1886,  ran  away  with  the  cash-box,  and  was 
condemned  to  twenty  years  of  hard  labor  for  forgery 
and  breach  of  trust." 

Amazed,  and  with  some  feeling  of  repugnance,  the 
good  priest  moved  a  little  away  from  him. 

"You  never  have  seen  me  before,  reverend  father," 
said  the  stranger,  "but  you  were  aware  of  my  existence, 
as  you  used  to  be  my  wife's  confessor.  Had  she  lived, 
I  should  have  remained  an  honest  man.  I  had  been  a 

[256] 


RESTITUTION 

widower  three  years  when  I  disgraced  myself.  No 
doubt  you  have  heard  of  my  crime  and  of  my  con- 
demnation?" 

The  priest  nodded  affirmatively. 

"I  also  knew  you,  although  I  never  had  seen  you. 
My  poor  Julia  had  often  spoken  to  me  of  her  friend 
the  Abbe  Moulin,  the  ragpickers'  priest.  So,  feeling 
that  you  are  incapable  of  betraying  me,  I  come  to  you 
in  all  confidence.  Have  I  done  wrong?"  On  putting 
this  question  the  pretended  American,  who  looked 
more  like  a  tramp,  ready  to  use  a  knife  or  a  revolver, 
than  a  banker,  fixed  his  steely  gray  eyes  steadfastly  on 
the  priest. 

The  Abbe  did  not  seem  at  all  flattered  at  the  confi- 
dence reposed  in  him  by  such  a  person,  and  hardly 
knew  what  to  reply. 

"Assuredly,"  he  murmured,  "you  need  not  fear  me. 
My  holy  office,  my  priestly  character,  make  unbounded 
charity  a  duty.  But  what  can  I  do  for  you?" 

Renaudel  smiled  at  the  uneasiness  of  the  simple 
priest. 

"Now,  Monsieur  1'Abbe,  admit  that  this  visit  is 
anything  but  a  pleasure  to  you,  and  that  you  look  upon 
me  as  an  impudent  rascal?" 

"You  may  smile,  Monsieur,"  replied  the  priest,  a 
little  warmly,  notwithstanding  his  natural  timidity, 
"but  why  should  I  not  remember  that  you  were  guilty 
of  a  very  great  crime,  and  that  you  did  a  great  deal 
of  harm?" 

"And  if  I  have  come  to  repair  it?"  exclaimed  the 
ex-banker,  drawing  a  pocketbook  from  an  inside 
i?  [257] 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

pocket,  and  placing  it  on  the  table  near  the  Abbe's 
breviary.  "In  this  pocketbook,"  continued  Renaudel, 
in  a  firm  tone,  "are  four  drafts  on  some  of  the  safest 
and  most  honorable  houses  in  Paris,  for  the  amount 
of  two  million,  two  hundred  and  eighty-three  thou- 
sand, one  hundred  and  fifty-three  francs — I  spare  you 
the  centimes.  This  capital,  which  includes  the  interest, 
will  pay  exactly  those  whom  I  have  wronged.  There 
is  sufficient  to  satisfy  my  four  largest  creditors.  With 
the  smaller  ones  I  have  already  managed  to  settle,  for 
it  seemed  to  me  that  the  poorer  people  had  the  first 
claim — they  were  most  to  be  pitied.  I'll  tell  you  now 
what  I  wish  you  to  do.  You  are  to  take  this  pocket- 
book.  I'll  give  you  a  list  of  my  creditors,  with  their 
addresses — which  I  found  out  in  Chicago  through  a 
private  inquiry  office.  You  are  to  leave  me  alone  here 
poking  your  fire,  and,  if  you  permit  it,  smoking  some 
cigars.  No  one  will  think  of  coming  here  to  arrest  an 
escaped  forger.  You  will  enter  the  carriage  at  the 
door — the  cabman  has  already  had  in  advance  a  louis 
as  a  tip.  Then  go  and  call  upon  the  four  persons 
(your  dress  permits  you  to  go  anywhere),  hand  them 
the  drafts,  without  saying  I  am  in  Paris,  or  how  you 
got  them,  wait  for  the  receipts — they  are  in  the  port- 
folio, lacking  only  signature — then  come  back  with  them 
to  me.  I  shall  go  by  the  same  carriage  to  the  station 
of  Saint-Lazare,  where  I  can  take  the  midnight  ex- 
press for  Havre.  To-morrow  morning  the  steamer  La 
Normandie  will  leave  at  half-past  nine,  conveying  your 
humble  servant  back  to  the  New  World!  And  you 
will  have  a  thousand  francs  for  your  poor." 

[258] 


RESTITUTION 

The  Abbe*  Moulin  was  thunderstruck.  We  know 
that  he  was  not  very  strong-minded,  and  the  events 
now  taking  place  would  turn  a  stronger  brain  than  his. 
So  many  startling  events  taking  place  in  so  short  a 
time !  There  were  a  thief  and  himself,  sitting  together 
by  his  fireside,  and  talking  like  two  old  friends!  And 
this  thief  had  come  especially  to  Paris  to  refund  mil- 
lions of  francs  that  he  owed;  and  was  offering  him  a 
thousand  francs  for  his  poor! 

This  thousand  francs  would  give  a  midnight  Christ- 
mas supper  to  the  ragpickers  of  the  Butte  aux  Cailles; 
it  would  clothe  the  five  orphans  of  the  Rue  Croule- 
barbe — allowing  twenty  francs  for  each  of  them;  he 
could  also  get  the  cod-liver  oil  and  quinine  wine  for 
little  Celeste;  and,  better  than  all,  the  marriage  of  the 
peat-man  and  the  worker  in  imitation  pearls  could  now 
be  celebrated.  It  was  all  too  good  to  be  true !  It  was 
like  a  fairy-tale!  The  old  priest  thought  he  must  be 
dreaming.  But,  no!  it  was  quite-  real!  There  was 
the  man  with  the  long  beard  in  his  sitting-room,  ask- 
ing him  once  more:  "Does  that  arrangement  suit 
you?" 

"Can  you  ask  me  such  a  question?"  exclaimed  the 
priest.  "Of  course  I  am  ready  to  help  you  to  make 
amends  for  the  misfortunes  you  have  caused,  and  to 
restore  their  fortunes  to  the  people  you  have  ruined! 
And  this  act  of  charity — so  generous  on  your  part! 
So  admirable — I  am  ready."  Suddenly  a  scruple 
stopped  the  good  priest:  How  had  this  stranger  come 
to  possess  all  this  money?  Dishonestly,  no  doubt! 
It  was  stained  with  blood,  perhaps!  Who  knew 

[259] 


FRANCOIS  COPPtfE 

whether  this  ex-banker,  with  his  ruffian's  face,  had  not, 
dagger  in  hand  and  followed  by  a  band  of  red-skinned 
savages,  adorned  with  eagles'  feathers,  and  with  rings 
in  their  noses,  robbed  the  travellers  on  the  transconti- 
nental train? 

"But,  pardon  me,  would  you  permit  me  to  ask  you 
an  almost  impertinent  question?"  stammered  the  Abbe 
Moulin.  "These  two  millions — how  did  you  get 
them?" 

"Very  honestly,"  replied  Renaudel,  without  hesita- 
tion. "In  the  American  fashion — by  dint  of  work, 
audacity,  and  will.  I  have  acquired  these  two  mil- 
lions, and  some  reserve  funds  I  possess  yonder  for  my 
business,  by  dealings  in  salt  pork.  I  said  just  now 
that  I  ran  away  with  the  cash-box;  I  made  a  mistake, 
I  only  bolted  when  the  coffers  were  quite  empty.  How 
did  I  stoop  to  all  this  ?  Fancy  a  man  adoring  his  wife, 
and  losing  her.  He  tries  to  drown  grief,  and  falls  into 
vice.  You  can  imagine  all  the  foolish  expenses.  Oh, 
what  sums  I  spent  on  that  delightful  little  actress  of 
the  Comedie  Francaise  who  used  to  say  so  innocently, 
'The  little  cat  is  dead,'  in  the  School  for  Wives!  You 
yourself  would  have  believed  in  her.  And  then,  when 
one  has  made  away  with  his  clients'  money,  there  is 
the  exchange,  where  it  is  double  or  quits.  I  lost — but 
we  won't  talk  of  that !  The  day  I  landed  in  New  York 
with  my  little  boy,  eight  years  of  age  (my  wife  had  died 
at  his  birth),  I  had  only  twenty  francs  in  my  pocket. 
I  assure  you  it  was  not  by  robbery  I  began  to  rebuild 
my  fortunes.  My  money  is  stainless.  I  see,  however, 
some  doubt  in  your  eyes.  Speak  openly  to  me." 

[260] 


RESTITUTION 

"Well,"  said  the  Abbe,  "pardon  me  if  I  offend  you, 
but  you  do  not  seem  to  me  to  be  repentant.  I  can  not 
make  out  how  you  have  decided  upon  the  restitution 
of  the  money." 

"You  don't  offend  me,"  replied  Renaudel.  "Last 
year  I  did  not  think  of  paying  back  my  creditors.  I 
was  living  under  the  name  of  Harrison — telling  every- 
one I  was  an  Englishman  brought  up  in  Marseilles. 
I  had  done  with  old  Europe — the  cable  was  cut — my 
skin  was  changed!  Fortune  smiled  on  me.  I  soon 
possessed  a  very  big  capital.  I  said  to  myself:  'All  is 
well! — Renaudel  is  dead!  Long  live  Harrison!'  No, 
I  was  not  a  repentant  sinner;  so  quickly,  indeed,  do 
we  forget  the  past.  I  regret  to  make  this  confession, 
but  I  no  longer  believe  in  God  or  in  the  devil.  If  hon- 
esty has  been  awakened  in  me,  it  is  owing  to  the  Christ- 
mas festival." 

The  old  priest  was  amazed. 

"Those  feasts  have  a  great  importance  in  English- 
speaking  countries;  and  at  the  midnight  festivities  of 
last  year,  the  wife  of  a  Chicago  merchant,  with  whom 
I  do  a  great  deal  of  business,  had  prepared  an  enter- 
tainment for  the  children.  I  took  my  little  Victor 
there,  for,  you  must  know,  Monsieur  1'Abbe,  though 
all  my  other  good  sentiments  have  vanished,  paternal 
love  has  remained. 

"I  adore  my  son.  He  reminds  me  of  my  poor  Julia 
and  of  my  happy  time.  He  is  eight  years  of  age  and 
I  take  great  care  of  him.  I  took  him  to  this  party 
and  he  helped,  with  the  other  boys,  to  strip  the  fir  tree 
loaded  with  sweets  and  toys.  I  looked  on,  sipping  my 

[261] 


FRANCOIS  COPPEE 

tea,  feeling  happy  in  his  mirth.  Although  I  am  with- 
out religion,  I  could  not  help  reflecting  on  the  delights 
of  Christian  society  procured  by  this  feast — this  chil- 
dren's feast  in  which  the  happiness  of  the  young  seemed 
to  communicate  innocence  to  the  men  of  ripe  age,  or 
to  old  men  who  have  more  or  less  lost  it.  For  the  first 
time  after  many  years — since  I  began  my  feverish  ex- 
istence of  a  gambler  and  a  rake,  or  my  new  life  of  very 
hard  work — I  felt  something  sweet  and  yet  bitter  soft- 
ening my  heart. 

"At  this  moment,  my  boy,  my  little  Toto,  tired  of 
playing  and  laughing,  came  and  sat  on  my  knee  and 
settled  himself  to  sleep.  I  had  prepared  a  fine  sur- 
prise for  him  for  the  next  morning.  I  said:  'Dear 
boy,  don't  forget,  before  going  to  bed,  to  put  your 
shoes  in  the  chimney.'  He  opened  his  eyes  languidly, 
saying,  'Oh,  no  fear!  Do  you  know,  papa,  what  I 
should  like  Christmas  to  bring  me?  A  box  of  leaden 
soldiers!  You  know,  soldiers  in  red  trousers,  as  I 
used  to  see  them  alive  in  the  garden,  where  my  nurse 
used  to  take  me  when  I  was  very  little — you  remember 
the  big  garden  opposite  the  street,  with  the  arcades, 
with  statues  and  trees  in  green  cases — do  you  recollect  ? 
When  I  wore  petticoats  like  a  little  girl,  and  my  name 
was  Toto  Renaudel.'  He  fell  asleep  after  that  word. 
I  was  startled,  and  a  sudden  shiver  passed  through  me. 
Thus  Victor,  hardly  four  years  of  age  at  the  time  of 
our  flight,  remembered  his  childhood;  he  recollected 
the  name  I  had  dishonored.  Ah!  Abbe  Moulin,  I 
spent  that  night  in  meditation — in  watching  by  his 
bed.  I  then  said  to  myself  that  I,  the  unpunished 

[262] 


RESTITUTION 

criminal,  was  enjoying  a  happiness  of  which  I  was  not 
worthy,  and  that  one  day,  no  doubt,  retribution  would 
reach  me  through  this  child.  I  reflected  that,  as  Vic- 
tor had  not  forgotten  his  true  name,  the  slightest  chance 
would  suffice  to  inform  him  that  it  was  the  name  of  an 
unpunished  robber.  The  thought  that  my  son  would 
have  to  blush  for  my  crimes — that  he  would  abhor  me 
—was  an  intolerable  burden:  then  I  swore  to  myself 
that  I  would  return  all  that  I  had  stolen,  with  com- 
pound interest,  and  get  receipts.  Victor  may  be  told 
one  day  that  his  father  was  a  thief.  I  shall  then  be 
able  to  answer:  'Yes,  but  I  have  restored  all  the 
money.'  I  may  then  be  pardoned.  I  resolved  to  sell 
all  that  I  possessed.  Alas!  the  total  was  still  very  far 
from  the  amount  of  my  debt.  During  the  last  year  I 
have  worked  very  hard,  and  to-day  I  can  pay  every- 
body. I  have  still  in  reserve  a  few  thousand  dollars. 
Yes,  my  dear  son,  I  shall  build  up  another  fortune  for 
you!" 

The  Abbe*  Moulin  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  Renaudel, 
who  had  become  affected  and  excited,  and,  strange  to 
say,  at  the  end  of  his  recital,  two  big  tears  trickled  down 
on  his  beard.  Another  priest  would  have  seized  this 
occasion  to  give  him  a  little  sermon,  but  the  Abbe 
Moulin  who,  we  know,  was  not  an  eagle,  and  was  fully 
conscious  of  his  deficiency  as  an  orator,  acted  with  all 
the  tact  of  a  delicate  heart.  He  got  up  and  extended 
his  hand  to  Renaudel.  "I  am  ready  to  start,"  said 
the  good  priest;  "kindly  give  me  your  last  instruc- 
tions; I  must  inform  you,  however,  that  I  must  be  in 
Trinity  Church  for  the  midnight  mass." 

[263] 


FRANCOIS 

"That  is  the  very  time  for  my  train,"  replied  Ren- 
audel,  who  gave  the  priest  a  hearty  hand-clasp.  "The 
Havre  express  starts  at  twelve.  I  don't  want  to  miss 
it,  for  I  dislike  the  air  of  Paris.  I  have  only  come  to 
find  a  trustworthy  confidant.  I  have  found  it  in  you. 
Thanks,  Abbe  Moulin,  pray  bring  me  back  the  re- 
ceipts. The  sum  is  more  than  two  million  francs:  it 
is  dinner-time;  every  one  is  sure  to  be  at  home,  so  you 
can  arrange  matters  easily. 

"  Here  is  the  list,"  he  added,  "  four  visits  to  pay :  Louis 
Duble,  a  writer,  Rue  des  Abbesses — a  draft  of  two  hun- 
dred and  fifty-one  thousand,  three  hundred  and  ninety 
francs.  At  the  time  of  my  flight  he  was  a  young  man, 
with  long  hair  and  neglected  nails;  I  have  heard  he  has 
had  some  successes.  If  he  has  kept  to  his  old  habits, 
the  literary  cafes  of  Paris  will  derive  some  benefit  from 
him.  Mademoiselle  Letourneur;  lives  in  Rue  du  Cardi- 
nal Lemoine.  By  Jove,  that's  a  good  distance.  She 
keeps  a  small  day  school,  and  is  an  imaginary  invalid— 
a  draft  for  three  hundred  and  sixty-five  thousand,  four 
hundred  and  forty-nine  francs.  I  suppose  she  will 
buy  some  more  boxes  of  pills  and  change  her  mineral 
waters.  Henri  Burtal,  architect,  Rue  de  Rennes.  He 
was  a  fine  young  man — too  fond  of  women — a  draft 
for  five  hundred  and  sixty-seven  thousand,  eight  hun- 
dred and  ninety-nine  francs — married  since  I  left.  It 
will  do  later  for  the  dowry  of  his  daughters.  Now,  the 
last,  my  most  sorely  tried  victim,  the  Marquis  de  Cap- 
decamp,  member  of  the  Jockey  Club,  Boulevard 
Malesherbes.  He  had  ancestors  at  Agincourt,  Pavia, 
Malplaquet,  Rosbach.  His  family  have  contributed 

[264] 


RESTITUTION 

many  soldiers  to  lost  battles;  he  was  a  good  horseman, 
but  a  true  blase;  he  squandered  a  large  fortune  five 
years  ago — married  also — my  theft  made  him,  so  I 
was  told,  regild  his  escutcheon  with  the  dowry  of 
Mademoiselle  Murdock,  daughter  of  a  doubtful  finan- 
cier. I'm  sure  he  will  be  agreeably  surprised  by  this 
draft  of  a  million,  seven  hundred  and  eight  thousand, 
four  hundred  and  twenty-one  francs. 

"Kindly  tell  these  people  I  don't  wish  to  remain  in 
Paris  to  be  acquitted  by  a  jury.  Tell  them,  if  you  like, 
that  Renaudel  has  changed  his  name  and  lives  abroad. 
Ask  the  receipts  from  them  that  I  may,  when  required, 
show  them  to  my  son  Victor.  It  is  already  half-past 
five.  Once  again,  I  thank  you." 

Renaudel  rose,  took  the  lamp,  led  the  Abbe  Moulin 
into  the  ante-chamber,  helped  him  to  put  on  his  warm 
topcoat,  and  wished  him  good  luck. 

He  sat  down  by  the  fire,  lighted  a  large  cigar,  and 
purled  like  a  steamer  under  full  headway. 


[265] 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  DWELLING   OF  A  POET 

[iTHOUT,  the  fog  had  become  very 
thick  and  icy,  and  it  had  an  abomi- 
nable odor  of  soot.  Thanks  to  the 
light  of  the  lantern  in  the  carriage, 
the  Abbe*  was  able  to  decipher  the 
addresses,  and  he  gave  the  first  on 
the  list  to  the  coachman.  As  soon 
as  the  door  was  closed,  the  man 
whipped  up  his  horse,  which  was  smoking  like  the 
vapor  from  sulphurous  soil,  and  away  they  went. 

The  old  priest,  shivering  in  the  draughts  in  spite  of 
the  closed  windows,  did  not  mind  the  odor  of  rotten 
straw,  stale  tobacco,  and  damp  cloth.  He  felt  too 
happy,  with  this  precious  pocketbook  pressed  tight  to 
his  breast.  His  mission  was  sweet.  He  was  about  to 
give  happiness  and  comfort  to  others. 

It  is  but  a  short  distance  from  the  Rue  de  Clichy  to 
Montmartre;  there  was  a  glimpse  of  the  wings  of  the 
Moulin  Rouge  concert-room,  then  the  cab  dashed 
through  the  thick  fog,  went  slowly  up  the  Rue  Lepic, 
and  stopped  in  the  Rue  des  Abbesses. 

"Monsieur  Louis  Duble?"  demanded  the  Abbe, 
opening  the  door  of  the  concierge,  from  which  escaped 
the  perfume  of  a  ragout  such  as  the  Baron  de  Roths- 
child never  had  tasted. 

[266] 


RESTITUTION 

"On  the  fifth  floor,  door  opposite  to  you,"  answered 
a  sort  of  Macbeth  witch,  wearing  a  linen  cap,  and  a 
beard  like  a  chasseur  of  Vincennes.  She  was  leaning 
over  a  large  kettle  in  which  simmered  an  Irish  stew, 
a  dish  which  concierges  alone  know  how  to  cook,  and 
which  the  habitues  of  the  Caf£  Anglais  would  find  very 
palatable  indeed.  The  poor  appearance  of  the  door- 
keeper, the  disorder  of  her  room,  and  the  wretched 
light  along  the  stairs  pleased  the  old  priest  amazingly. 
No  doubt  it  was  to  a  poor  poet  he  was  bringing  the 
money.  On  the  fifth  floor,  bravo !  He  had  but  vague 
classical  recollections  of  the  life  of  men  of  letters.  He 
felt  sure  of  seeing  a  garret  like  Malfilatre's,  where  he 
should  find  Louis  Duble  lying  upon  a  straw  bed,  with- 
out fire,  and  armed  with  paper  and  pencil;  his  dis- 
hevelled hair,  shirt  open  at  the  breast,  and  eyes  rolling 
like  those  of  an  epileptic  showing  how  deep  was  his 
inspiration.  Abbe  Moulin's  guide  upon  this  point  was 
some  engraved  portraits  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
which  he  had  hastily  looked  at  in  some  of  the  windows 
of  the  Quai  Malaquais.  Who  knows  that  he  did  not 
imagine  an  odor  of  carbonic  acid  on  the  landing,  and 
hasten  his  steps  to  be  in  time  to  break  open  the  door, 
and  save  the  poet  from  despair  and  asphyxia  ?  At  any 
rate,  notwithstanding  his  asthma,  he  went  up  the  stairs 
briskly.  But  the  fifth  landing  was  not  the  last,  and 
he  felt  annoyed  at  finding  a  rather  respectable-looking 
place. 

He  rang  the  bell.  The  door  was  opened  by  an  ele- 
gantly dressed  young  man — Louis  Duble*  himself.  He 
was  in  evening  dress,  with  a  white  cravat,  for  he  was 

[267] 


FRANCOIS  COPPtiE 

going  to  attend  the  first  performance  of  a  play,  and 
dine  early  at  a  restaurant.  As  soon  as  the  priest  gave 
his  name,  Louis  Duble  introduced  him  into  a  large 
room,  formerly  a  painter's  studio,  prettily  and  simply 
furnished;  the  walls  were  covered  with  books,  a  lamp 
threw  a  light  over  a  quantity  of  paper  scattered  upon 
a  large  table,  and  a  bright  wood  fire  gave  a  pleasant, 
warm  atmosphere  to  the  room;  everything  gave  evi- 
dence of  long  hours  of  calm  and  careful  study. 

The  Abbe  Moulin,  more  and  more  astonished,  gave 
up  thinking  of  the  misery  of  Gilbert  and  Chatterton. 

"To  what  am  I  indebted  for  the  honor  of  this  visit?" 
asked  Louis  Duble,  sitting  in  a  large  mediaeval  arm- 
chair, looking  like  the  president  of  a  club  where  cheat- 
ing is  going  on. 

Every  man,  even  the  best  and  simplest,  is  at  heart 
something  of  an  actor. 

"After  all,"  said  the  priest  to  himself,  "I  am  bring- 
ing this  so-called  poet,  who  is  not  poor  and  receives 
me  with  such  icy  politeness,  more  than  a  quarter  of  a 
million  of  francs."  And  a  little  unconsciously  the 
worthy  pastor  tried  to  produce  some  kind  of  dramatic 
effect. 

He  took  from  his  cassock  a  snuff-box,  a  string  of 
beads,  a  few  pence,  his  spectacle-case,  and  the  famous 
pocketbook;  he  took  from  the  latter  the  draft  made 
payable  to  Louis  Duble,  and  handed  it  to  him.  "The 
cause  of  my  visit,  Monsieur,"  said  he,  with  a  sweet 
smile,  "is  simply  to  give  you  this,  and  to  get  your 
receipt,  of  course." 

"What!  Can  it  be  possible!"  exclaimed  the  poet. 
[268] 


RESTITUTION 

"Two  hundred  and  fifty-one  thousand,  three  hundred 
and  ninety  francs  in  one  draft,  on  the  Credit  Foncier 
—and  in  my  name!  What  does  it  mean?  Are  you 
playing  a  trick  on  me?" 

"Not  at  all,"  said  the  priest,  "it  simply  means  that 
Monsieur  Renaudel— 

"My  old  banker!    That  infamous  robber!" 

"Has  become  remorseful,  Monsieur,  and  wishes  to 
reimburse  to  his  creditors  all  that  he  took  from  them, 
with  compound  interest." 

"What!  This  enormous  sum!  All  my  fortune  and 
even  more— 

"Is  restored  by  Renaudel,  whose  only  thought  is  to 
set  his  conscience  at  rest;  and  who  has  forbidden  me 
to  say  anything  more  about  him." 

"Why!  we  must  be  in  a  land  of  dreams.  This  ras- 
cal has  then  become  an  honest  man?"  Louis  Duble 
laughed  nervously. 

"He  is  a  debtor  who  pays  his  debts,  Monsieur,  that 
is  all,"  said  the  priest,  earnestly. 

He  felt  annoyed  at  the  remarks  of  this  young  man — 
over-dressed,  like  a  diplomatic  clerk  of  the  Quai 
d'Orsay.  It  was  too  much  for  the  good  priest,  after  his 
thoughts  on  the  staircase.  No  garret.  No  broken 
pitcher.  No  trestle  bed.  No  dog  licking  the  hand  of 
a  dying  poet.  Instead,  this  Louis  Duble,  with  a  con- 
tented smile,  saying:  "This  has  not  made  my  heart 
quicken  by  a  single  beat,  but  I  am  very  pleased." 

At  last,  noticing  the  dissatisfied  air  of  his  visitor,  he 
continued : 

"You  are  surprised,  Monsieur,  that  I  don't  show 
[269] 


FRANCOIS  COPPtfE 

more  delight.  You  would  like  to  be  able  to  tell  Re- 
naudel  that  you  had  seen  me  go  almost  mad  with  joy. 
I  should  be  acting  a  falsehood  were  I  to  cover  this 
paper  with  kisses,  for  my  pleasure  is  mixed  with  per- 
plexity. Thanks  to  this  money,  I  shall  be  more  free; 
I  shall  no  longer  be  compelled  to  write  two  articles  a 
week,  to  insure  my  existence.  I  can  begin  to  write  a 
modern  drama,  the  subject  of  which  is  haunting  me. 
But  I  must  be  prudent  lest  I  resume  my  old  habits  of 
lounging  and  of  dreaming.  Now,  Abbe  Moulin,  you 
appear  to  be  an  excellent  man.  This  action  of  Re- 
naudel's  has  touched  you  deeply,  so  I'll  give  you  the 
means  of  rejoicing  the  heart  of  your  penitent  by  telling 
him  that  he  rendered  me  a  great  service  when  he  left 
me  as  poor  as  Job." 

"A  service!"  said  the  priest,  astonished. 

"Yes.  When  I  was  rich  I  was  idle  and  unknown; 
when  I  became  poor  I  had  to  work.  If  you  can  kindly 
wait  a  few  minutes  while  I  tell  my  story,  you  will  be 
able  to  tell  this  honest  swindler  when  you  go  back  that 
he  is  perhaps  doing  me  a  great  injury  by  returning  this 
money." 

"I  am  in  haste,"  replied  the  priest,  "but  I  feel  a  little 
inquisitive." 

"You  need  not  be  uneasy.  My  story  is  soon  told. 
Imagine  a  silly,  conceited  young  man,  worshipping 
poetry  and  mad  about  literature,  falling  into  his  fort- 
une before  he  was  twenty  years  of  age,  then  you  can 
guess  the  rest. 

"I  went  into  raptures  about  everything.  What 
taste  I  had!  I  took  the  last  novels  of  Chivalry  quite 

[270] 


RESTITUTION 

seriously,  and  had  great  veneration  for  writers  of  light 
plays.  Each  day  I  began  a  great  work — a  drama — 
never  getting  beyond  the  description  of  the  scenery  for 
the  first  act — 'stage  to  represent  a  forest;  on  the  left 
a  tree,'  etc.  Delightful  state  of  mind,  after  all!  I 
happened  to  meet  a  friend  who  was  two  years  older 
than  I.  He  used  to  shave  to  resemble  Baudelaire. 
I  was  quite  dazzled  by  him.  He  took  me  round  to 
two  cafes,  one  in  the  Latin  Quarter,  the  other  on  Mont- 
martre,  and  I  thought  I  saw  in  him  the  future  king  of 
Paris  and  of  the  intellectual  world.  I  followed  his 
guidance  blindly,  and  paid  him  my  respects  with  drinks. 
In  return  he  taught  me  to  look  upon  almost  everything 
with  contempt.  I  supplied  the  money  to  found  a  re- 
view; we  were  not  to  write  for  the  general  public,  our 
readers  were  to  consist  of  twenty-five  persons.  Ac- 
cording to  my  mentor,  any  one  who  obtained  the  least 
success  in  literature  was  a  Philistine — a  mediocrity. 
But  I  am  afraid  I  am  speaking  Chinese  to  you,  Mon- 
sieur 1'AbbeV' 

"No!  no!  I  think  I  understand.  Go  on,"  said  the 
Abbe",  who  began  to  think  better  of  the  young  man. 

"Well,  as  I  was  rich,  I  became  the  Maecenas  of  the 
party.  The  chief  of  our  school  got  me  to  publish  a 
fortnightly  periodical  to  defend  our  ideas.  We  called 
it  Instantana.  The  frontispiece  represented  a  young 
person,  with  black  stockings,  on  horseback  upon  a 
photographic  apparatus. 

"Those  persons  conducting  the  paper  met  every 
evening  in  a  bar  in  the  Rue  Cujas,  where  I  presided 
as  Laurent  the  Magnificent  of  Bohemia;  and  where  I 

[271] 


FRANCOIS 

had  every  month  to  pay  a  bill  for  the  Loevenbrau  beer, 
sauerkraut,  ham,  pickled  herrings,  etc. 

"Two  classes  of  writers  contributed  to  the  Instan- 
tana;  the  prose  writers,  who,  after  Stendhal's  fashion, 
examined  every  morning  the  state  of  their  souls,  with 
the  peevishness  of  a  dyspeptic  looking  at  his  tongue  in 
the  glass;  then  came  the  poets — the  'allegorists,'  rhym- 
ing shockingly;  one  of  them,  a  Chilian,  wished  that 
every  word  should  give  a  physical  sensation.  No  one's 
reputation  was  safe  from  the  Instantana;  even  the 
future  fame  of  the  poets  of  the  cafe  opposite  was 
jeoparded  by  our  criticisms. 

"We  called  Victor  Hugo  'that  poor  Hugo'  and 
granted  that  Bossuet  had  the  gift  of  style.  Racine  we 
took  under  our  special  protection,  no  one  well  knew 
why. 

"This  was  all  very  disgraceful,  but  I  thought  every- 
thing admirable.  I  paid  for  my  admiration,  too,  both 
in  pocket  and  in  health.  I  supplied  all  the  funds  and 
went  to  bed  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  heavy  with 
beer  and  aesthetics.  I  only  published  some  short  poems 
in  my  journal,  of  which  I  am  sure  my  dear  collabora- 
tors made  fun  behind  my  back.  The  Instantana  ap- 
peared for  three  years,  and  all  I  gained  from  it  was  a 
duel — two  shots  without  any  result.  A  lawsuit  was 
beginning  against  me  when  Renaudel  fled  to  America 
with  the  remnants  of  my  fortune,  which  would  other- 
wise have  been  converted  into  useless  paper  and  sauer- 
kraut ham." 

"And  nothing  was  left,  my  child?"  said  the  Abbe" 
Moulin. 

[272] 


RESTITUTION 

"No,  I  was  ruined,  cleaned  out  completely,  and, 
worse  than  all,  I  had  idle  and  expensive  habits.  I  lived 
for  some  months  by  selling  my  books,  my  furniture, 
and  my  clothes.  Things  were  coming  to  the  worst, 
when  I  met  one  of  my  old  comrades  who  saved  me. 
He  was  writing  witty  articles  for  a  high-class  paper. 
We  had  called  him  a  traitor  in  the  Instantana;  he  ob- 
tained me  a  berth  hi  the  office  of  the  journal  as  general 
reporter. 

"I  had  to  live,  and  when  relating  my  stories  about 
rabid  dogs,  or  the  old  lady  who  met  with  an  accident 
at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  Montmartre,  I  had  no  time 
to  ask  myself,  like  the  Chilian  with  the  gong-voice, 
whether  my  words  were  redolent  of  a  rose  or  of  a  gas 
leakage,  or  produced  the  sensation  of  the  touch  of  an 
Angora  cat.  I  wrote  my  chapter  of  accidents  in  my 
best  style,  so  as  to  get  ten  francs  for  it. 

"Indeed,  it  is  fops  alone  who  maintain  that  journal- 
ism spoils  the  style.  Oh,  how  hard  I  found  the  life  at 
first!  What  hurry!  What  feverish  agitation!  I  had 
to  leave  a  charity  ball  to  run  to  the  Place  de  la  Roquette 
to  see  an  execution;  and  after  a  provincial  tour  with 
the  president,  I  had  to  take  sausages  and  small  wine 
with  the  Anarchists.  It  was  life  in  all  its  phases;  and 
I  entered  into  it  thoroughly,  and  in  time  grew  to  love 
it.  By  degrees  I  acquired  a  certain  amount  of  popu- 
larity, and  while  writing  my  reports  under  a  pseu- 
donym, contributed  original  tales  and  sketches  in  my 
real  name.  Let  me  confess  it!  When  writing  the  lat- 
ter I  thought  more  of  pleasing  my  readers  than  any- 
thing else.  The  stupid  writers  of  the  Instantana  were 
18  [273] 


on  the  wrong  track;  one  should  work  to  please  the 
people.  Theophile  Gautier  was  right  in  saying  that 
one  need  not  be  an  imbecile  to  succeed  as  a  writer. 
There  were  some  people,  my  dear  Abbe",  who  liked  to 
read  my  articles! 

"About  six  weeks  after  publishing  my  first  novel,  I 
found  that  a  good  many  people  were  envious  of  me. 
I  was  torn  to  pieces  in  the  cafes  when  my  back  was 
turned — a  very  good  sign.  I  am  waiting  anxiously  for 
the  day  when  I  shall  see  it  stated  that  I  cheat  at  cards 
or  that  I  belong  to  the  police,  for  then  I  may  be  sure 
that  my  success  is  assured.  Glory,  you  know,  may  end 
by  laurels,  but  usually  begins  with  baked  apples.  My 
book  is  not  without  faults.  It  is  written  to  please  com- 
monplace people;  but  I  shall  do  better  later. 

"If  in  five  years  I  have  exchanged  idleness  for  in- 
dustry, vanity  for  common-sense ;  if  I  have  got  at  some 
of  those  luscious  grapes  that  others,  less  lucky,  call 
'sour,'  I  owe  it,  dear  Monsieur,  to  the  loss  of  my  fort- 
une. You  may  tell  that  poor  devil  of  a  swindler, 
Renaudel,  that  I  am  indebted  to  him  for  my  career!" 

The  old  priest,  by  this  time,  felt  very  cordial  toward 
the  young  poet,  and  though  a  little  bewildered  by  his 
eloquence,  would  willingly  have  remained  listening 
much  longer  had  he  not  thought  of  the  visits  he  must 
still  pay. 

"I  shall  relate  all  faithfully  to  Renaudel,  Monsieur. 
But,  as  I  have  told  you  already,  I  am  pressed  for  time. 
Would  you  kindly  sign  this  receipt?" 

M.  Duble  signed ;  then,  taking  in  his  hand  the  draft, 
said  in  a  low  voice:  "I  bid  you  welcome,  heavy  bag. 

[274] 


RESTITUTION 

But  mind  you,  not  to  interfere  with  my  work  for  the 
future.  Last  night  I  refused  to  attend  the  midnight 
revels  of  my  friend  Thurel,  the  dramatic  writer,  though 
I  knew  that  pretty  Margotte,  the  little  blonde  of  the 
Variete's,  was  to  be  there.  Money!  money!  I  fear 
you  will  give  me  bad  advice." 

The  priest,  a  little  weary  of  this  monologue,  pre- 
pared to  go.  "  Pardon,  Monsieur,"  said  the  poet, 
"Christmas,  through  your  hands,  brings  me  this  pretty 
present.  I  can  not  get  cash  for  it  to-night;  but  I  have 
the  five  hundred  francs  from  my  novel.  Here  they  are 
for  you!  You  know  a  few  poor  children." 

"Thank  you,  Monsieur,"  replied  the  Abb£  Moulin. 
"I  shall  give  it  to  my  five  orphans  of  the  Rue  Croule- 
barbe." 

"Don't  forget  the  old  people,  either,"  said  the  poet. 
"Yesterday  I  met  the  song- writer,  Chulieux,  sixty- 
eight  years  of  age,  going  through  the  mud  to  a  small 
place  where  he  was  to  dine  with  some  workmen  and 
pay  for  his  dinner  with  a  song.  He  is  out  of  fashion, 
but  he  has  had  at  times  a  spark  of  genius  in  Pierre 
Dupont's  style.  He  is  very  ill;  I  intend  to  send  him 
to  the  south  of  France." 

The  priest  smiled,  deeply  touched. 

Louis  Duble*  added,  gayly,  "You  see,  we  men  of  let- 
ters have  also  our  old  ragpickers;"  then  smilingly  ac- 
companied the  worthy  priest  to  the  door. 


[275] 


CHAPTER  III 

THE   SCHOOL  FOR  DEMOISELLES 


Abbe  Moulin  then  went  to  the 
Rue  du  Cardinal  Lemoine,  thinking 
that,  after  all,  money  can  not  give 
talent  or  fame,  though  it  may  prevent 
you  from  achieving  it.  And  who 
knows  but  that,  in  restoring  his  fort- 
une to  the  poet,  Renaudel  may  not 
have  deprived  French  literature  of  a 
masterpiece?  Yet,  what  about  the  commandment, 
"Thou  shalt  not  steal"?  There  are  so  few  persons 
willing  to  make  reparation  for  the  wrong  they  have 
done  that  it  would  not  do  to  discourage  them. 

As  the  horse  was  fresh  the  priest  was  not  very  long 
in  reaching  his  destination.  It  was  seven  o'clock 
when  he  arrived. 

As  the  fog  had  lifted  a  little,  he  was  able  to  read  the 
words,  "School  for  Demoiselles,  kept  by  Mademoiselle 
Latournure,"  written  in  yellow  letters  upon  a  black 
board  over  the  gate. 

He  got  out,  rang  the  bell,  and  was  reverently  re- 
ceived by  a  maidservant.  "Mademoiselle  is  about  to 
dine,"  she  said,  "but  it  does  not  matter.  Come  in, 
Monsieur." 

The  priest  crossed  a  little  garden  and  the  servant 
[276] 


RESTITUTION 

opened  a  door,  whence  he  heard  the  joyful  voices  of 
children. 

He  beheld  a  pleasant  sight:  a  humble  classroom, 
with  yellow-painted  walls,  ornamented  by  tables  of 
weights  and  measures  and  maps  of  France,  Europe, 
etc.;  in  a  corner  were  some  desks,  and  in  the  centre 
of  the  room  a  middle-aged  lady  and  ten  little  girls 
were  seated  round  a  table  covered  with  glasses  and 
plates  and  lighted  by  two  large  petroleum  lamps. 

In  the  time  of  General  Cavaignac,  the  old  lady  must 
have  been  a  sprightly  brunette.  She  still  preserved 
her  black  eyes,  full  of  vivacity,  and  her  rosy  com- 
plexion, but  her  hair  was  like  white  spun  silk;  her 
sweet,  agreeable  smile  revealed  a  fund  of  good  humor 
and  good  health. 

As  the  priest  came  in,  the  elderly  lady  was  in  the 
act  of  carving  a  roast  turkey,  which  sent  out  an  appe- 
tizing odor  of  chestnut-sauce  and  sausage-meat.  It 
was  a  treat  to  hear  the  joyous  cries  of  the  children. 
One  could  plainly  see  that  it  was  not  every  day  they 
got  roast  turkey  with  chestnuts.  They  looked  like  lit- 
tle ogresses  smelling  fresh  meat.  They  were  not,  how- 
ever, workingmen's  daughters.  No;  they  belonged  to 
those  struggling  people  who  try  to  hide  their  poverty 
and  be  genteel.  They  sent  their  children  to  Mademoi- 
selle Latournure,  and  paid  her  because  she  had  a  high- 
class  diploma.  And  each  mother,  though  only  the 
wife  of  a  modest  employe  or  small  shopkeeper,  had 
decorated  her  little  girl  with  a  knot  of  ribbon  and 
freshly  ironed  frills,  so  that  she  might  look  nice  at 
"Mademoiselle's"  dinner. 

[277] 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

This  turkey  with  chestnuts  was  a  rare  treat  indeed! 
Very  different  from  the  plain,  scanty  meals  of  every- 
day life.  Yet  it  was  not,  alas!  a  very  large  one;  it 
did  not  cost  more  than  seven  or  eight  francs  in  the 
market,  and  looked  quite  small  compared  with  those 
garnished  with  truffles  exhibited  in  Chevet's  window. 
The  Abbe*  Moulin  had  surely  seen  much  larger  ones 
at  the  pious  woman's  dinners,  but  I  doubt  if  he  ever 
had  witnessed  such  wonderful  appetites! 

He  was  greatly  surprised  at  the  joyful  appearance  of 
the  elderly  lady,  for  Renaudel  had  spoken  of  her  as  a 
melancholy  person,  in  bad  health. 

"Mademoiselle  Latournure?"  doubtfully  asked  the 
old  priest. 

"Yes,  Monsieur,"  the  lady  replied,  gracefully. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  interrupt  your  dinner,  Mademoiselle, 
but  I  bring  you  some  important  and  very  agreeable 
news.  May  I  have  a  word  with  you  in  private?" 

"With  pleasure,"  she  said,  rather  nervously.  "Cle- 
mence" — to  the  servant — "show  the  Abbe  Moulin  into 
the  parlor.  I  will  follow  you  immediately,  Monsieur." 

Laying  down  her  knife,  Mademoiselle  Latournure 
looked  round  at  the  children,  saying,  "You  must  wait 
for  me  a  little,  dear  children,  and  I  hope  you  will  be 
good." 

"Oh,  yes,  Mademoiselle!"  came  the  chorus  of  the 
children.  It  was  like  a  chorus  of  an  old  tragedy,  one 
of  lamentations.  This  beautiful  turkey,  smoking  hot, 
to  be  left  to  turn  cold !  Ah!  the  naughty  priest ! 

The  priest  regretted  this  quite  as  much  as  the  chil- 
dren, as  he  followed  the  maid  into  the  parlor,  a  very 

[278] 


RESTITUTION 

small  room,  with  a  writing-table,  six  chairs,  and  an 
old  print  representing  the  heads  of  some  French 
kings. 

The  old  priest  was  a  poor  diplomatist — priests  are 
not  allowed  to  go  to  theatres,  and  he  had  not  seen  the 
play,  Joy  Frightens.  He  spoke  too  quickly  of  Re- 
naudel,  and  showed  too  abruptly  the  paper,  with  the 
dazzling  figures.  "Three  hundred  and  sixty-five  thou- 
sand, four  hundred  and  forty-three  francs." 

A  great  change  came  over  the  face  of  the  school- 
mistress. She  seemed  as  if  she  would  have  a  stroke  of 
apoplexy,  but  luckily  she  burst  into  tears,  and  inco- 
herent words  followed.  She  thanked  the  priest  heart- 
ily, calling  upon  the  Virgin  and  all  the  saints  to  pour 
all  the  blessings  of  heaven  upon  that  scamp — no !  upon 
that  good  Renaudel.  She  announced  her  intention  of 
sending  Clemence  at  once  to  the  pawnbroker's  to 
release  the  silver  ladle,  the  six  silver  covers,  the  sugar- 
tongs,  the  coffee-spoons,  and  the  fish-slice,  which  were 
well-nigh  forfeited. 

A  shrill  cry,  followed  by  tears,  from  the  next  apart- 
ment, suddenly  interrupted  the  interview. 

"Oh!"  said  Mademoiselle  Latournure,  as  she  hastily 
got  up,  "it  is  Ernestine  crying  for  the  turkey — she  is 
not  yet  five — I  must  not  forget  the  poor  children. 
Will  you  come,  reverend  sir?  We  can  converse  just 
as  freely  before  the  children." 

You  may  be  sure  she  was  warmly  welcomed  by  the 
children.  Ernestine  left  off  crying  at  once. 

"Hand  a  chair  to  the  Abbe  Moulin,  Clemence,"  she 
said.  "Perhaps  you  would  kindly  share  our  dinner 

[279] 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

with  us,  Monsieur  ?    We  should  look  upon  it  as  a  great 
honor." 

The  priest  would  gladly  have  accepted  the  invita- 
tion, as  he  was  hungry,  but  he  remembered  that  he 
had  still  two  visits  before  him;  so  he  took  only  a  little 
wine  and  a  biscuit. 

The  fowl  was  divided  in  tiny  pieces,  so  that  every- 
body had  some;  the  children  began  to  eat  heartily; 
the  greedy  Ernestine  had  the  rump  for  her  share. 

"You  see,  Monsieur,"  said  the  schoolmistress,  en- 
chanted, "I  am  not  rich,  or  rather  five  minutes  ago  I 
was  not  rich.  My  school  hardly  procures  me  a  living, 
but  every  year  on  Christmas  Eve  I  eat  a  turkey  with 
chestnuts  with  some  of  my  pupils  whose  parents  can't 
afford  the  midnight  luxury;  it  is  my  only  'extra'  in  the 
year.  Is  it  not  a  pleasant  sight,  dear  Monsieur?" 

She  spoke  sternly  to  one  of  the  children : 

"Marie  Duval,  eat  more  decently;  you,  a  big  girl, 
nine  years  old,  are  you  not  ashamed  to  lick  your  fin- 
gers? Clemence,  you  need  henceforth  have  no  more 
words  with  the  coal-dealer  and  the  milk-woman;  they 
will  be  paid  on  delivery.  Yes,  I  am  possessed  again  of 
my  property,  but  I  shall  retain  my  school,  if  only  for 
the  children's  dinner.  I  shall,  however,  have  this  treat 
at  all  the  festivals  of  the  Church,  and  the  fowl  will  be 
an  enormous  one — you  hear,  children!" 

Three  of  the  largest  girls  answered,  "Yes,  Made- 
moiselle." 

The  promises  of  the  teacher  passed  almost  unheeded, 
for  future  events  offer  but  little  interest  to  children, 
and  the  girls'  attention  was  absorbed  by  the  turkey. 

[280] 


RESTITUTION 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  M.  Moulin,  "kindly  excuse 
me  for  expressing  my  astonishment.  I  find  you  in  good 
health  and  very  cheerful,  enjoying  a  pure  pleasure 
which  is  also  an  act  of  kindness,  and  I  shall  confess  it 
to  you,  Renaudel  has  spoken  to  me  of  you " 

"As  an  egotistical  person,"  exclaimed  Mademoiselle 
Latournure,  with  a  charming  laugh,  which  made  her 
look  years  younger.  "Well,  Renaudel  told  you  the 
truth." 

"How  is  this?"  said  the  priest. 

"Yes,  a  very  stupid  old  maid,  always  complaining. 
I  was  so  when  Renaudel  knew  me.  Tell  this  good 
robber  that  in  ruining  my  fortune  he  has  restored  me 
to  health  and  cheerfulness." 

At  this  moment  Clemence  brought  in  a  large  apple- 
tart,  which  was  hailed  with  hurrahs. 

"Emilie  Charron,"  said  the  schoolmistress,  "sit  up- 
right unless  you  wish  to  become  hunchbacked  —  and 
you,  Sophie,  don't  let  me  see  your  elbows  on  the  table 
again." 

Her  scolding  was  not  very  serious,  for  contentment 
was  visible  in  her  little  black  eyes,  upon  her  rosy 
cheeks. 

"Dear  Monsieur,"  she  said,  on  cutting  the  tart, 
"take  your  wine  and  biscuit,  and  I  will  tell  you  briefly 
my  history.  I  did  not  marry,  as  I  had  to  take  care  of 
my  old  father,  who  was  a  widower  and  ailing;  on  the 
day  of  his  death,  an  illustrious  doctor  came  and  said, 
'He  is  dead,'  and  charged  five  hundred  francs  for  his 
visit. 

"I  was  forty-five,  alone  in  the  world,  and  wanting  a 
[281] 


FRANCOIS  COPPEE 

deal  of  rest,  as  my  poor  old  father,  who  suffered  much, 
had  become  very  exacting.  It  is  now  my  turn  to  take 
care  of  myself,  I  thought.  I  fancied  I  was  ill  and  I 
became  so  really  through  drugging  myself. 

"The  menu  of  each  meal  was  a  state  affair,  each 
digestion  a  drama.  I  adopted  a  milk  diet  for  three 
months — I  have  even  been  a  vegetarian.  I  was  per- 
suaded that  certain  vegetables  were  dangerous  and  that 
spinach  contained  a  slow  poison. 

"Yes,  I  exhausted  the  patience  of  ten  doctors  and 
changed  my  medicinal  waters  every  year.  I  consulted 
homoeopathic  doctors,  somnambulists,  all  the  quacks, 
and  I  have  been  seen  in  distant  suburbs  entering  the 
back  shops  of  herbalists  (half  sorcerers)  who  sell 
draughts. 

"My  mild  temper  became  soured,  I  exacted  pity 
from  everybody,  and  whoever  did  not  take  an  interest 
in  my  health  became  odious  to  me.  At  last  Renaudel 
took  away  my  fortune,  except  a  few  thousand  francs. 
I  was  then  obliged  to  work  or  to  die  from  hunger. 

"This  little  day-school  was  for  sale;  I  bought  it, 
and  very  soon,  among  my  little  pupils,  the  flame  of 
maternity  smouldering  in  the  heart  of  old  maids  was 
lighted.  I  had  been  ailing  and  egotistical  because  I 
had  nothing  to  do,  no  one  to  love. 

"Formerly,  I  used  peptone  to  digest  my  raw  meat; 
but  now  my  stomach  puts  up  with  beef  and  onions, 
and  potatoes  and  bacon — earning  one's  livelihood  is  an 
excellent  hygienic  system! 

"Besides,  I  have  seen  so  much  poverty  nobly  borne 
in  the  families  of  my  pupils  that  I  have  learned  resigna- 

[282] 


RESTITUTION 

tion.  I  have  seen  dark  days.  I  receive  hardly  any 
money  and  have  few  pupils;  but  the  cheerfulness  of 
children  is  so  contagious  that  I  have  learned  to  live 
for  daily  bread.  Only  yesterday  I  sent  my  old  Cash- 
mere shawl  to  the  pawn-shop  in  order  to  buy  this 
Christmas  turkey.  You  restore  to  me  my  fortune; 
I  am  pleased  at  that,  but  it  shall  no  longer  go  to  en- 
rich chemists.  I  shall  not  give  up  my  school.  As  I 
am  growing  old,  I  shall  take  in  an  assistant,  some  poor 
girl  with  a  diploma,  and  I  shall  be  her  friend.  In  the 
sideboard  I  shall  keep  good  things  for  the  little  girls 
whose  baskets  may  be  scantily  supplied.  I  shall  no 
longer  torment  the  poor  mothers  with  the  faded  gowns, 
who  sigh  so  bitterly  when  paying  me  the  monthly 
twenty  francs  for  the  schooling  of  their  children.  I 
wish  to  remain  among  these  genuine  joys  and  the  pure 
eyes  of  the  children.  Tell  all  this  to  Renaudel.  I 
owe  it  to  him  that  I  am  no  longer  an  old  mad-woman 
draining  chemists'  bottles." 

The  apple-tart  had  vanished;  the  children  were 
chattering  so  much,  it  was  like  the  warbling  of  birds 
in  a  tree  on  the  rising  of  an  April  sun.  Ernestine,  the 
greedy  child,  now  satiated,  was  sleeping  soundly. 
Truly,  the  old  priest  felt  pleased  that  poverty  had 
restored  joy  of  body  and  of  soul  to  the  amiable  school- 
mistress; it  seemed  to  him  a  paradise.  He  called  to 
mind  his  ragpickers  who,  through  lack  of  money,  were 
in  bad  health  and  died  so  soon. 

"I  congratulate  you,  Mademoiselle,"  said  he,  "on 
your  recovery;  money  does  not  always  give  health,  it 
may  even  injure  it.  I  have  among  my  poor  a  child 

[283] 


FRANCOIS  COPPEE 

thirteen  years  old  dying  slowly  from  anaemia;  she 
wants  nourishing  food  and  wine,  but  they  are  too 
dear." 

"I  understand  you,  dear  Monsieur,"  was  the  reply 
of  the  schoolmistress.  "Kindly  send  me  the  name 
and  address  of  the  little  girl.  She  will  have  soon  some 
Medoc  and  filets  de  b&u}.  Now  I  have  to  put  their 
warm  clothing  on  the  children  and  to  take  them  to 
their  homes,  so  I  must  take  my  leave  of  you." 

M.  Moulin  thanked  the  schoolmistress  heartily.  He 
found  his  coachman  walking  to  and  fro,  as  it  was  so 
cold.  The  moon  was  shining,  the  fog  had  nearly 
lifted. 

"Now,  then,"  soliloquized  the  priest  in  the  cab, 
"shall  I  meet  at  last  an  unhappy  person  who  will  be 
pleased  with  money!" 


[284] 


CHAPTER  IV 

ALL   IS   WELL  WITH  MOTHER  AND   CHILD 

QUARTER  of  an  hour  later,  the 
Abbe  Moulin  alighted  before  a  new 
house  in  the  Rue  de  Rennes;  he 
asked  whether  Monsieur  Burtal  was 
at  home. 

The  concierge,  in  a  dressing-gown, 
was  warming  himself  and  reading  his 
evening  journal.  He  was  angered  at 
being  disturbed,  and  especially  at  the  sight  of  the  cas- 
sock; he  shouted,  "Third  story,  to  the  left,"  and  re- 
sumed his  favorite  reading.  The  old  priest  read  the 
name  "Henri  Burtal,  Architect."  He  saw  above  the 
door  a  fragment  of  the  frieze  of  the  Parthenon,  where- 
on were  some  of  the  celebrated  small  horses.  This 
plaster  model  meant  that  Monsieur  Burtal  would  build 
with  pleasure  a  temple  of  Minerva  or  of  Jupiter 
Olympia  if  you  desired  it;  he  was  also  quite  ready  to 
take  something  off  the  heavy  joiner's  bill,  according  to 
the  regulations  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville. 

At  the  ringing  of  the  bell  a  garrulous  old  woman 
opened  the  door,  drew  back  at  sight  of  the  priest,  and 
shouted,  her  breath  smelling  strongly  of  cassia:  "Heav- 
ens! it  is  not  yet  the  midwife!" 
"I  fear  I  arrive  at  an  awkward  moment,"  said  the 
[285] 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

priest,  "but  I  shall  detain  Monsieur  Burtal  a  few  min- 
utes only." 

"You  may  go  into  the  study  of  Monsieur  Burtal; 
he  is  with  Madame,  who  felt  ill  at  twelve  o'clock;  I'll 
send  him  to  you,  as  men  are  so  stupid  at  such  times." 

The  priest  entered  and  saw,  on  a  high  table,  a  large 
drawing. 

"Ah!  the  fire  is  going  out,"  said  the  old  woman. 
"I  must  tell  you,  Monsieur,  I  am  the  nurse  who  is  to 
take  care  of  Madame  to-night;  I  require  some  stimu- 
lants as  I  have  to  be  up,  and  would  you  believe  it,  that 
servant,  who  looks  like  a  snipe,  is  nearly  mad  and  has 
prepared  no  dinner.  I  ate  cold  veal — it  is  so  heavy; 
luckily  I  found  a  little  cognac  in  the  sideboard ;  I  never 
liked  brandy,  it  hurts  me,  I  only  take  a  drop  mixed 
with  something  sweet."  The  Megaera  left  the  room. 

Monsieur  Moulin  looked  at  the  drawing  representing 
a  small  railway  station  for  distant  villages,  where  corn, 
poppies,  and  dandelions  grow  between  the  rails  of  a 
single  line,  so  little  is  it  travelled  upon.  Nothing  was 
wanting,  neither  the  goods-shed  nor  the  lamp-room 
nor  other  buildings. 

The  priest  noticed  also  some  framed  drawings  and 
water-colors  on  the  walls,  representing  other  small  sta- 
tions. He  thought  it  must  be  very  monotonous  to  be 
always  at  the  same  kind  of  work,  always  building  the 
same  houses,  where  the  same  key  might  have  opened 
the  station-masters'  locks  all  along  the  line. 

The  Abbe*  Moulin,  who  had  been  made  uneasy  by 
the  horses  of  Phidias,  became  composed  again.  Mon- 
sieur Burtal  evidently  had  not  yet  tried  building  cathe- 

[286] 


RESTITUTION 

drals,  royal  palaces,  or  opera-houses.  He  noticed, 
however,  a  water-color  drawing  in  a  corner — an  ideal 
restoration  of  the  Baths  of  Caracalla  which  showed  that 
Monsieur  Burtal  had  visited  Italy  and  dreamed  of 
glory. 

But  there  was  no  hope  that  this  madman,  son  of 
Septimus  Severus,  assassinated,  as  were  many  of  the 
Roman  emperors,  in  the  year  217  of  the  Christian  era, 
would  ever  come  to  life  or  cause  his  gigantic  baths  to 
be  repaired.  The  architect  must  be  a  poor  man,  and 
the  priest,  who  was  bringing  him  a  fortune,  was  much 
pleased  with  that  supposition.  He  heard  in  the  ante- 
chamber a  sudden  exclamation  from  the  old  drunkard 
and  a  loud  sound  in  another  woman's  voice;  then  a 
door  opened,  from  which  escaped  stifled  cries. 

Soon  after,  Monsieur  Burtal,  in  a  gray  suit,  presented 
himself  before  the  priest. 

Oh,  what  a  handsome  young  man!  A  Hercules, 
with  a  head  of  flaxen  hair  and  a  graceful  figure.  He 
was  thirty;  his  head  was  small  like  those  of  ancient 
statues;  his  blue  eyes  shone  with  the  light  of  genial 
frankness;  and  although  the  mouth  was  rather  large, 
what  white  teeth!  what  an  agreeable  smile!  Such 'a 
man  at  an  evening  party  would  turn  the  head  of  many 
a  young  girl. 

And  this  fine  young  man  of  the  build  of  Theseus 
was  a  tracer  of  small  plans  in  India-ink!  At  the  pres- 
ent moment  he  was  evidently  in  the  greatest  anxiety. 

"Pardon  me,  Monsieur,  for  having  made  you  wait. 
Some  one  has  told  you  of  my  poor  Cecile.  It  is  her 
first  confinement,  though  we  have  been  married  four 

[287] 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

years.  I  love  her  so  much;  it  is  hard  to  see  her  suffer- 
ing when  I  can  not  render  any  assistance.  Kindly  sit 
down.  I  am  ready  to  listen  to  you,  Monsieur." 

The  good  old  priest  had  in  no  wise  the  appearance 
of  a  vicar-general  who  comes  to  ask  for  the  estimate 
of  a  cathedral,  yet  the  architect  was  hoping  that  he 
might  have  come  about  the  restoration  of  a  church, 
hospital,  convent,  or  a  college.  He  composed  his  feel- 
ings to  receive  this  possible  customer  cordially. 

"You  will  pardon  me,"  replied  Monsieur  Moulin, 
opening  his  portfolio,  "for  having  disturbed  you  at  such 
a  time  when  you  know  the  mission  I  am  intrusted  with. 
Prepare  yourself  for  a  pleasant  surprise.  Your  former 
banker,  Renaudel— 

"The  scoundrel!" 

"He  returns  all  that  he  has  taken  from  you  and  the 
others.  I  have  to  give  you  this  draft  for  five  hundred 
and  sixty-seven  thousand,  eight  hundred  and  ninety- 
nine  francs." 

"Upon  my  word,  this  is  a  deal  better  than  an  order!" 

And  if  the  emperor  of  China  with  all  his  mandarins 
had  come  to  request  Monsieur  Burtal  to  construct  an 
Indian  temple  forty  stories  high,  after  the  style  of  the 
Eiffel  Tower,  the  radiant  face  of  the  artist  would  not 
have  expressed  more  surprise  and  joy.  He  examined 
the  precious  papers  carefully  and  said: 

"What  a  great  happiness!  I  must  go  and  announce 
this  good  news  to  Cecile." 

"Don't  think  of  such  a  thing,"  said  the  priest,  "you 
might  kill  her." 

"You  are  right,"  whispered  the  architect;  "I  thank 
[288] 


RESTITUTION 

you!  This  happiness  does  frighten  even  me,"  added 
he,  with  a  changed  voice,  "when  my  wife  is  suffering 
so  much!  In  a  few  minutes  I  may  be  informed  that 
we  have  a  child,  that  all  danger  is  over — and  besides, 
we  should  be  rich — but  all  this  is  too  good  to  be  true. 
Ah!  dear  Monsieur,  we  lead  a  very  sad  life;  I  was 
obliged  to  accept  the  humble  parts  of  the  work  in  my 
profession!  I  feel  only  too  happy  when  I  have  any 
work  to  do.  I  am  obliged  to  be  separated  from  my 
beloved  wife  very  often  in  order  to  superintend  my 
work.  My  good  Cecile  could  not  order  a  new  gown 
this  winter,  but  upon  my  honor,  were  I  told  now,  'If 
you  wish  to  be  certain  that  your  wife  will  recover,  cast 
this  draft  in  the  fire,'  I  would  do  it  directly.  This 
money  startles  me." 

At  this  moment  a  protracted  cry  of  anguish  was 
heard.  "My  Cecile!"  exclaimed  the  architect,  and  he 
rushed  out  of  the  room. 

Monsieur  Moulin  feared  the  result  of  his  indiscre- 
tion, but  he  wanted  his  receipt  for  Renaudel.  He  re- 
mained alone  before  the  small  railway-stations.  In  a 
few  minutes  Monsieur  Burtal  came  back. 

"She  is  more  calm,"  said  he.  "We  had  not  two 
hundred  francs  in  the  house  this  morning.  Accept  my 
excuses,  dear  Monsieur;  you  mentioned  a  receipt!" 

"Here  it  is,"  said  the  priest. 

Monsieur  Burtal  signed,  then,  as  if  dreaming:  "  More 
than  half  a  million,"  whispered  he;  "abundance  of 
riches,  as  formerly — but  I  was  not  happy  at  that  time; 
truly  I  have  known  happiness  only  since  my  ruin!" 

This  one  also!  thought  the  priest.  It  was  truly  sur- 
19  [289] 


FRANCOIS  COPPtiE 

prising!  "What  do  you  say,  Monsieur?"  said  he, 
aloud.  "Just  now  you  told  me  you  have  had  hard 
times." 

"I  was  wrong,"  interrupted  Monsieur  Burtal.  "For 
the  last  four  years  my  life  has  been  delightful,  for  I 
love  and  I  am  loved.  That  is  the  reason  why  I  can 
put  up  with  cloudy  days;  and  had  it  not  been  for 
poverty,  I  should  not  have  known  that  C6cile  loved  me 
so  tenderly.  Tell  me  the  truth,  Monsieur,  what  did 
Renaudel  tell  you  of  me?" 

"He  spoke  of  you  as  a  young  man,"  replied  the 
priest,  "who  was  addicted  to  pleasure." 

"As  a  rake — we  can  speak  frankly,"  replied  Monsieur 
Burtal.  "I  will  tell  you  the  history  of  my  life,  so  that 
I  may  perhaps  forget  my  frightful  anxiety.  At  the  age 
of  twenty-three  I  was  rich,  good-hearted,  but  I  had 
very  excitable  blood.  I  travelled  in  Italy,  was  sup- 
posed to  be  gaining  knowledge,  and  on  my  return  I 
could,  perhaps,  build  arenas  comfortable  enough  in 
which  to  give  up  Christians  to  ferocious  beasts,  but  in 
case  I  might  have  had  to  build  a  house  five  stories 
high,  it  was  possible  for  me  to  forget  the  well  of  the 
staircase  and  the  kitchen-sink.  In  fact,  I  had  occupied 
myself  much  less  with  the  Colosseum  and  Saint  Peter's 
of  Rome  than  with  the  pretty  flower-girls  who  stroll  in 
the  evening  before  the  cafes  and  offer  you  small  bou- 
quets. On  my  return  to  Paris  I  resumed  this  kind  of 
study — but  I  do  not  offend  you,  Monsieur  1'Abbe*?" 

"  Keep  on,"  was  the  reply  of  the  priest,  "  I  have  heard 
worse  things  in  the  confessional  box." 

"In  the  house  where  I  lived  in  the  Rue  de  Vaugi- 
[290] 


RESTITUTION 

rard,  I  had  had  Cecile  and  her  mother  as  neighbors. 
I  lived  on  the  second  floor,  but  they  occupied  the  gar- 
ret. They  were  poor;  the  mother  was  the  widow  of 
a  government-office  clerk  and  enjoyed  a  small  pen- 
sion; the  daughter,  a  telegraphy  pupil,  went  every 
morning  to  learn  the  Morse  alphabet  in  the  Rue  de 
Crenelle.  I  found  her  quite  charming;  it  seemed  to 
me,  after  some  exchanges  of  glances,  that  I  did  not 
displease  her;  then  began  my  saluting  her  on  the  stair- 
case and  a  little  conversation;  very  shortly  I  was  re- 
ceived in  their  home;  but  my  advances  were  those  of 
of  a  would-be  seducer.  She  repelled  me  without  anger, 
and  a  great  sadness  was  depicted  in  her  voice,  on  her 
face.  Marry  her?  I  could  do  so;  I  even  thought  of 
it  a  little,  but  I  was  feather-brained  then.  Soon  after 
she  had  frowned  upon  me,  a  literary  friend  of  mine 
whose  comedy  was  played  at  the  Gymnase  presented 
me  to  one  of  the  principal  actresses,  who  took  me  away 
in  her  brougham,  with  the  boxful  of  jewels  and  the 
bouquets  of  the  third  act.  You  will  understand  easily, 
Monsieur,  that  it  was  I  who,  for  a  whole  year  after- 
ward, replenished  the  casket  with  diamonds,  filled  the 
actress's  box  with  flowers,  and  settled  the  livery-stable 
accounts. 

"Through  that  wild  extravagance  a  good  part  of 
my  patrimony,  entrusted  entirely  to  Renaudel,  had  al- 
ready vanished  when  that  swindler  took  away  the  rest. 
The  actress,  a  pupil  of  the  Conservatoire  who  knew  the 
verses  of  Corneille,  said  to  me  then:  'Let  us  be  friends.' 
She  appeared  the  next  day  in  the  mail-coach  of  a  gen- 
tleman of  princely  blood  who  had  devoted  his  talents 

[291] 


to  the  special  art  of  coaching,  and  occupied  every 
evening  at  the  theatre  an  armchair  beside  mine. 
Ruined  and  heartbroken,  I  began  to  seek  employment. 
I  had  left  my  apartments  of  the  Rue  de  Vaugirard, 
and  had  nearly  forgotten  my  gentle  neighbors.  How 
could  I  ever  have  supposed  that  this  young  girl,  so 
stupidly  offended  by  me,  was  taking  an  interest  in  my 
fate  and  had  been  saddened  by  my  misfortune?  It 
was  so,  however.  On  a  spring  evening  I  was  return- 
ing home  sorrow-stricken  after  a  day  of  fruitless 
search,  when  suddenly  I  met  Ce*cile  in  mourning  in  the 
Tuileries  garden.  She  shook  hands  with  me,  told  me 
her  mother  had  died  six  months  before,  that  she  was 
alone  in  the  world.  She  had  heard  of  my  trouble; 
she  then  tried  to  comfort  me.  Ah!  dear  Abbe  Moulin, 
I  know  not  what  I  told  her,  nor  what  the  mammas  and 
the  nurses,  seated  under  the  chestnut  trees,  must  have 
thought  of  us;  but  I  remember  that  I  kept  her  hands 
in  mine  a  long  while,  and  I  begged  her  pardon  with 
tears." 

"Well  done!"  exclaimed  the  Abbe  Moulin,  over- 
joyed. 

"But,  mind,  I  am  about  to  offend  you  a  little — I 
offered  my  arm  to  Cecile;  she  accepted  it,  and  even 
consented  to  dine  with  me  in  a  small  restaurant.  By 
Jove!  I  was  at  the  end  of  my  resources;  there,  for 
a  franc  and  a  half  you  were  entitled  to  have  two  de- 
testable dishes  and  a  paltry  dessert.  But  I  felt  pleased 
that  this  dear  girl  should  have  remained  my  friend, 
and  I  truly  believe  I  had  never  eaten  anything  better 
than  the  leather-like  meat  with  mushrooms  which  was 

[292] 


RESTITUTION 

served  us.  After  dinner  we  strolled  along  the  quays, 
and  by  the  way  in  which  the  arm  of  Ce*cile  was  leaning 
on  mine,  by  her  looks  of  pity  on  me,  I  felt — oh!  it 
was  so  sweet — that  she  loved  me!  I  felt  that  if  I  re- 
peated to  her  now  the  words  of  love  of  former  times 
they  would  no  more  be  regarded  as  an  insult,  but  an 
exquisite  pleasure,  and  that  if  I  were  willing,  the  gen- 
erous girl,  who  had  repelled  me  when  I  was  happy  and 
rich,  would  give  herself  up  entirely  to  me,  now  that  I 
had  become  poor!" 

"I  truly  hope "  said  the  priest,  frightened. 

"Be  assured,  dear  Monsieur.  On  the  pavement  op- 
posite the  Hotel  des  Monnaies — at  that  hour  it  is  a 
lonely  place — I  shall  confess  to  you  that  I  gave  a  kiss 
to  my  Cecile;  but  it  was  in  swearing  to  her  that  I  was 
giving  her  my  heart,  that  she  must  become  my  wife, 
and  that  we  would  live  as  best  we  could,  that  we  would 
go  hand  in  hand  in  all  sorts  of  weather.  We  were 
quick  about  this  affair;  after  a  few  days  we  went  to 
the  Town  Hall  and  to  the  parish  church.  I  sold  a 
few  Japanese  articles  for  which  I  had  paid  very  dear, 
but  which  are  very  cheap  at  the  Bon  Marche,  and 
bought  the  bride's  white  gown  and  bouquet.  By  good 
fortune,  I  obtained  my  present  situation  as  an  architect 
on  the  railway  on  the  eve  of  my  marriage;  it  is  a 
modest  one,  for,  as  you  see,  I  have  not  to  build  Parthe- 
nons.  We  manage  to  live,  however,  and  we  are  happy; 
the  most  humble  existence  is  tolerable  if  some  flowers 
of  sentiment  are  springing;  it  is  like  nasturtiums  upon 
salad,  which,  when  so  adorned,  seems  better.  But  all 
that  is  passed — I  am  now  possessed  of  five  hundred 

[293] 


FRANCOIS  COPPfiE 

thousand  francs,  and  the  problem  of  shoes  and  stays 
for  my  beloved  is  now  solved.  I  have  seen  a  pretty 
cluster  of  emeralds  at  the  Palais  Royal,  and  from  to- 
morrow   But  my  Ce"cile  is  in  danger  of  death 

now.  Oh!  reverend  father,  give  me  some  hope;  pray 
God  for  my  dear  wife,  and  tell  me  that  all  of  them 
come  into  the  world  without  accident — those  children 
born  on  Christmas  night." 

The  old  priest,  moved  to  tears,  pressed  the  hands 
of  the  architect,  seeking  words  of  comfort,  when  the 
nurse,  as  red  as  a  peony  by  emotion,  and  by  the  cognac 
she  had  drunk,  entered  the  room,  shouting:  "It  is  a 
boy!  Bravo,  Monsieur — both  doing  well!" 

Monsieur  Burtal,  forgetting  his  visitor,  ran  to  kiss  his 
dear  wife.  The  priest  exclaimed : 

"What  a  good  young  man  this  Burtal  is!  He  is 
right — true  love  is  something  which  is  not  to  be  bought ! 
May  the  good  Lord  bless  them  and  their  newly  born 
child!" 

Noticing  that  it  was  a  quarter  to  ten,  the  priest  ex- 
claimed: "Oh!  I  must  start.  It  is  a  long  way  from 
here  to  the  Boulevard  Malesherbes." 

He  was  about  to  leave  at  once,  when  Monsieur 
Burtal  reentered,  full  of  joy.  "No,  no!"  he  cried. 
"You  shall  not  go  away  like  this — superb!  the  little 
one!  and  if  you  could  see  my  Cecile,  so  pale — but  what 
a  smile!  No,  I  am  too  happy.  I  mu?t  do  good  to 
some  one;  you  know,  dear  Monsieur,  of  a  good  deal  of 
poverty — tell  me  of  some  one  to  relieve." 

"Well,  my  dear  Monsieur,"  answered  the  Abb6 
Moulin,  always  having  in  mind  the  poor  Mouffetard 

[294] 


RESTITUTION 

district,  "if  poverty  has  given  you  love  and  happiness, 
I  know  two  good  young  people  for  whom  it  does  the 
reverse — the  sweetheart  is  working  in  imitation  pearls 
and  the  man  is  cutting  peat.  The  girl  is  pure,  and 
that  is  so  rare  in  the  Parish  Saint-Medard ;  they  only 
want  five  hundred  francs  to  make  a  home." 

"They  shall  have  one  thousand,"  replied  the  archi- 
tect. "Come  when  you  like,  dear  Monsieur,  for  the 
money.  I  rely  on  you  for  the  baptism  of  my  son, 
whom  we  shall  name  Noel." 


[295J 


CHAPTER  V 

IN  THE  GAY  WORLD 

arriving  at  the  residence  of  the 
Marquis  de  Capdecamp,  Boulevard 
Malesherbes,  near  the  Park  Mon- 
ceau,  the  Abbe  Moulin's  carriage  was 
ordered  to  keep  the  line,  as  a  great 
number  of  broughams  and  landaus 
were  at  the  door;  the  Marquis  was 
giving  a  reception. 
The  entrance  was  ablaze,  there  was  a  profusion  of 
plants  and  lights,  and  a  beautiful  Eastern  carpet  cov- 
ered the  stone  steps  leading  up  to  the  door.  A  lackey 
was  throwing  open  the  doors  of  the  different  carriages 
—a  handsome  flunkey  in  sumptuous  livery  and  pow- 
dered hair,  whose  calves,  molded  in  white  silk,  would 
have  sufficed  at  the  court  of  Catherine  II  to  transform 
a  simple  grenadier  into  a  commander-in-chief  or  a  cab- 
inet minister. 

At  sight  of  the  priest,  with  his  old  hat,  faded  topcoat, 
and  greasy  neckband,  the  overdressed  lackey  could  not 
suppress  a  start  of  astonishment  and  drew  back  in 
disgust;  but  the  old  priest  had,  by  this  time,  armed 
himself  with  assurance — he  would  not  allow  himself  to 
be  stranded  in  the  harbor. 

"I  have  an  important  communication  to  make  to  the 
Marquis,"  said  he  to  the  lackey. 

[296] 


RESTITUTION 

"I  don't  know  that  the  Marquis  will  be  able  to  re- 
ceive you,"  replied  the  servant.  "Ask  the  valet-de- 
chambre;  there  he  is!" 

Without  being  intimidated  by  the  five  or  six  tall  men 
in  livery  and  powdered  hair,  the  old  priest  made  his 
way  toward  the  valet-de-chambre — an  important  per- 
sonage in  black  silk  stockings,  lace  ruffles,  and  cuffs— 
and  again  asked  whether  he  could  see  the  Marquis. 

At  first  the  valet  was  sure  that  it  would  be  impossible 
to  see  the  Marquis.  What!  Disturb  him,  and  three 
hundred  people  in  the  reception-rooms! 

The  Abbe  Moulin,  however,  was  persistent,  and  at 
last,  thanks  to  his  cassock,  Monsieur  Auguste  consented 
to  go  and  ask  his  master  whether  he  could  see  him. 
Left  to  himself,  the  priest  felt  rather  out  of  place  in 
the  gorgeous  ante-chamber,  and  hid  himself  as  best 
he  could  between  two  large  azaleas  in  bloom. 

He  watched  the  fine  ladies  divesting  themselves  of 
their  chinchilla  and  blue-fox  furs  in  the  cloak-room 
opposite,  and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  was  able 
to  contemplate  a  series  of  beautiful  necks,  arms,  and 
breasts.  This  would  have  been  nothing  strange  to 
you,  dear  reader,  who  are  an  habitue  of  society  or  hold 
a  season  ticket  for  opera  performances.  The  good 
priest  was  as  strong-minded  as  Saint  Anthony  himself 
and  only  noticed  the  jewels  and  ornaments  that  height- 
ened the  beauty  of  these  "treasures,"  as  our  grand- 
fathers called  them.  This  New  Testament  socialist, 
who  had  ruined  himself  to  give  to  the  poor,  felt  a  feel- 
ing of  discontent  at  the  sight  of  such  riches. 

"Decidedly,"  he  thought,  biting  his  lips,  "they  have 
[297] 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

too  many  diamonds,  and  my  poor  old  ragpickers  of  the 
Butte  aux  Cailles  are  obliged  to  take  their  mattresses 
and  blankets  to  the  pawn-shop!  All  this  is  badly 
arranged." 

Monsieur  Auguste's  return  snatched  him  away  from 
his  reflections. 

"Will  the  reverend  gentleman  follow  me?" 

He  ascended  a  narrow  staircase,  and  reached  a  large 
apartment  on  the  first  story.  A  Dutch  chandelier 
gave  a  discreet  light,  which  showed  some  bookshelves; 
enormous  logs  of  oak  were  burning  in  a  splendid  fire- 
place. 

"The  Marquis  requests  you  to  wait  for  him  a  few 
minutes,"  said  the  valet  on  leaving. 

The  priest  examined  the  armorial  bearings  of  the 
Marquis  on  the  top  of  the  chimney  without  being  much 
impressed ;  he  was,  in  fact,  ignorant  of  the  noble  science 
of  heraldry,  and  could  not  understand  the  beauties  of 
an  escutcheon  where  there  were  castles  similar  to  those 
of  the  game  of  chess,  a  red  cross  like  that  upon  the 
bottles  of  Swiss  absinthe,  and  some  shells  like  those 
at  the  door  of  a  wine-merchant  in  the  oyster  season; 
he  saw  also  a  lion  which  looked  like  a  circus  poodle. 
He  even  thought  the  proud  motto  of  the  Capdecamp 
family,  "Always  at  the  head!"  lacking  in  Christian 
modesty.  And  on  his  calling  to  mind  the  share  of  this 
family  in  the  well-known  defeats  of  our  history,  the 
famous  motto,  "Always  at  the  head,"  so  much  ad- 
mired by  the  d'Hozier  of  the  time  and  lovers  of 
heraldry,  appeared  to  the  worthy  priest  grotesque 
boasting. 

[298] 


RESTITUTION 

After  entering  the  room  he  heard  a  vague  noise 
close  to  him,  behind  a  thick  velvet  portiere. 

Yes!  behind  this  veil  was  that  world  mentioned  so 
often  by  him  in  his  sermons;  that  world  unknown  to 
him,  but  whose  vain  pomps,  seductions,  and  dangers 
were  to  be  feared,  said  he,  by  the  children  he  had  in 
his  catechising  classes. 

After  all,  that  mysterious  world,  against  which  he 
had  thundered  so  often  in  quoting  the  Fathers  of  the 
Church,  was  there  close  to  him.  The  Abbe*  Moulin 
had  only  to  open  Slightly  these  two  pieces  of  heavy 
velvet  drapery  and  he  could  see  that  famous  world 
in  the  midst  of  the  pleasures  which  lead  to  its  perdi- 
tion. He  yielded  to  curiosity  and  gazed  on  this  extraor- 
dinary sight. 

He  saw  a  salon  resplendent  with  light.  Two  hundred 
women  were  seated  upon  slight  gilt  chairs,  as  closely 
packed  as  sardines. 

Under  the  canopy  of  the  doors,  right  and  left,  was  a 
great  number  of  men  with  large  shirt-fronts  and  dull, 
tired  faces,  all  standing. 

Yonder  was  seen  the  bust  of  the  wife  of  the  Marshal 
de  Capdecamp,  in  the  reign  of  Louis  XV,  whose  hus- 
band, the  illustrious  marshal,  had  been  beaten  by 
Frederick  the  Great;  near  it  was  a  man,  very  ugly, 
with  the  shaven  face  of  a  strolling  player  and  thick 
lips,  uttering  obscure  prose  mingled  with  stale  puns 
and  stupid  talk  about  deceived  husbands  and  mothers- 
in-law;  he  had  a  deal  of  assurance  and  the  manners  of 
one  under  the  influence  of  drink. 

The  Abbe*  Moulin,  though  simple,  was  not  stupid. 
[299] 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

This  compact  crowd,  this  nauseous  odor  of  perfume, 
of  dying  flowers,  and,  above  all,  the  low  grimaces  of 
the  mountebank,  inspired  him  with  great  horror. 

How  astonished  the  good  priest  would  have  been 
had  he  been  told  that  these  persons  were  so  disgusted 
with  one  another  that  they  preferred  even  this  stupid 
monologue  to  their  own  conversation.  This  low  actor 
was  not  satisfied  with  the  forty  thousand  francs  he 
earned  at  his  theatre;  he  asked  twenty-five  louis  for 
the  evening  and  exacted  no  end  of  compliments.  At 
that  moment  the  priest  reflected  how  shamefully  the 
rich  were  wasting  money,  and  he  felt  indignant,  think- 
ing of  the  misery  of  his  poor. 

A  door  opened,  and  the  Marquis  de  Capdecamp 
entered.  How  superb  he  was!  He  was  about  fifty 
years  of  age,  his  beard  was  slightly  gray,  and  he  looked 
rather  puffy  under  the  eyes;  but  his  appearance  was 
distinguished.  He  had  a  nose  like  Francis  I.  Go  and 
see  the  Titian  of  the  Louvre!  I  spoke  of  large  shirt- 
fronts:  here  was  a  man  covered  with  starch;  it  was 
simply  a  field  of  snow  behind  his  waistcoat — a  Siberia 
crossed  by  the  black  string  of  an  eyeglass!  Certain 
snobs  had  their  linen  washed  in  London;  that  is  now 
out  of  fashion.  The  Marquis  sent  his  own  linen  to 
New  York,  where  he  found  the  Chinese  laundrymen 
the  best  in  the  world. 

Poor  fops!  you  bow  before  your  laundress,  even  pay 
your  addresses  to  her — some  of  them  are  truly  charm- 
ing— but  you  can  can  never  obtain  this  dazzling  bright- 
ness; before  the  shirt-front  of  the  Marquis  one  had  to 
keep  one's  eyes  down  for  fear  of  ophthalmia. 

[3°°] 


RESTITUTION 

After  a  very  stiff  salutation  the  Marquis,  in  a  haughty 
tone  of  voice,  asked  the  priest  the  object  of  his  visit. 

Frankly,  the  bearing  of  the  Marquis  displeased  the 
priest;  then  he  had  been  obliged  to  wait  long,  and  so 
without  ceremony  he  related  promptly  the  purport  of 
his  errand. 

"Renaudel — your  ex-banker — everybody  has  been 
paid — here  is  the  draft — one  million — etc., — and  my 
receipt,  if  you  please,  Marquis." 

The  Marquis  turned  red  to  his  ears,  but  he  wished 
to  appear  unmoved  and  to  oppose  the  impassibility  of 
a  nobleman  to  the  plebeian  roughness  of  the  priest. 
He  examined  the  draft  attentively;  it  was  certainly 
genuine;  then  he  slipped  it  in  his  pocket,  signed  the 
receipt,  and  gave  it  back  with  the  tips  of  his  fingers. 

The  priest  was  about  to  retire,  when  suddenly, 
broken  by  emotion,  the  Marquis  dropped  into  an  arm- 
chair, and  stammered  out  in  a  voice  broken  by  sobs: 
"Too  late!  Too  late!" 

"Good  heavens,  Marquis!  what  is  the  matter  with 
you?"  exclaimed  the  priest,  amazed. 

The  Marquis  got  up,  his  face  purple  with  anger, 
and  strode  up  and  down  the  apartment.  "Ah!  truly," 
said  he,  with  fury,  "he  restores  what  he  has  stolen, 
this  robber!  he  compensates  his  victims,  this  forger! 
with  the  interest — I  see  it,  for  the  sum  he  stole  from 
me  was  much  below  this  figure!  You  expect,  no 
doubt,  you,  his  messenger,  that  I  shall  ask  you  to  pre- 
sent Renaudel  my  compliments  for  this  fine  action. 
On  the  contrary,  I  bid  you  tell  this  man  that  one  can 
not  be  rehabilitated  so  easily;  that,  as  regards  my 

[301] 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

case,  he  has  repaired  nothing  of  the  harm  he  has  done 
me;  that  I  have  nothing  but  utter  contempt  for  him!" 
He  foamed  at  the  mouth  and  strode  past  the  priest, 
who  recoiled.  "One  million!"  he  shouted,  staring  in 
the  face  of  the  priest.  "I  laugh  at  his  million — I  am 
worth  twelve  millions!  They  are  the  millions  of 
Mademoiselle  Murdock,  that  is  to  say,  Madame  la 
Marquise  de  Capdecamp,  who  gives  this  evening  a 
splendid  party,  and  whose  toilette  will  be  described  to- 
morrow in  twenty  papers.  And  my  wife's  money — do 
you  hear? — it  is  like  the  money  of  Renaudel,  it  is 
money  stolen!  One  million!  What  does  he  wish  me 
to  do  with  his  million  ?  Can  I  redeem  my  honor  with 
it?" 

Ah!  the  man  of  the  world  had  vanished;  he  cared 
no  longer  for  his  snowy  shirt-front;  he  was  beating 
his  breast  with  his  trembling  hand. 

"My  frankness  astonishes  you,  is  it  not  so?  So 
much  the  worse!  I  must  burst!  My  heart  has  been 
oppressed  too  long.  No,  but  do  you  see,  this  Renau- 
del, a  low  scamp,  believes  himself  quits  with  me  by 
restoring  my  money.  Good  heavens!  till  the  day 
when  he  stripped  me  I  had  not  lived  a  dull  life;  I  was 
abandoned  to  debauchery — as  you  call  it!  Among  us 
it  is  named  gallantry  and  generosity!  These  are  the 
peccadilloes  of  a  gentleman;  and  you  priests,  you  ab- 
solve us  once  a  year.  I  had  had  my  hand  open,  as  a 
gentleman  should,  that's  all.  I  had  tasted  enough  of 
the  life  of  pleasure,  I  thought  of  finishing  decently. 
A  few  hundred  thousand  francs  remained  to  me;  I 
thought  of  retiring  to  a  small  estate  of  mine  in  the 

[302] 


RESTITUTION 

Mayenne.  I  had  promised  myself  this  pleasure. 
Suddenly  this  Renaudel  took  flight,  and  I  became  the 
prey  of  twenty  creditors.  What  was  I  to  do?  I  was 
forty-seven  years  of  age,  I  could  not  enlist — to  work  I 
was  ashamed! 

"I  debated  whether  I  had  not  still  something  to  sell 
—a  pledge  to  carry  among  the  Jews — and  then  I  found 
this  last  prey  of  the  usurer."  Then,  pointing  at  the 
armorial  bearings  of  his  family:  "These  only  remained 
to  me,  and  I  have  had  the  millions  of  the  Jewess  in 
exchange  for  my  coronet  of  a  marquis,  the  motto,  the 
lions,  the  castles,  the  shells,  the  whole  shop!  And  I 
am  the  son-in-law  of  this  Murdock  who  sold  counter- 
marks in  his  youth,  who  kept  a  gambling-house;  of 
this  Murdock,  who  with  his  so-called  'office  of  agri- 
culture,' emptied  the  old  stockings  of  the  working- 
men  and  the  peasants;  he  robbed  the  poor,  this  Mur- 
dock, and  if  justice  were  not  a  farce  he  should  have 
been  sent  to  Noumea  with  Renaudel.  Tell  that  gentle- 
man with  tardy  scruples  of  conscience,  tell  him  that 
this  is  his  work — let  him  not  shrug  his  shoulders  and 
exclaim:  'That  poor  Marquis,  he  will  become  accus- 
tomed to  his  new  life.'  Look!  I  have  been  married 
four  years,  and  I  have  always  before  me  the  shame  of 
this  mesalliance  I  Many  others  have  acted  as  I  did, 
and  sleep  tranquilly  on  the  same  pillow  with  the 
daughter  of  a  robber — there  are  such  people  here  in 
this  assembly.  Behind  this  curtain,  mingled  with  the 
acquaintances  of  my  wife,  is  a  throng  of  parvenus  and 
vulgarians — others  who  have  not  sold  their  name  and 
are  without  reproach  have  come  all  the  same  from  the 

[3°3J 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

recesses  of  their  noble  suburbs — attracted  by  gold, 
bowing  before  fortune;  they  also  have  the  right  to 
despise  me.  What  does  the  opinion  of  this  crowd 
upon  my  conduct  matter  to  me?  I  value  only  the 
opinion  of  people  of  honor,  alas!  and  what  that 
opinion  is  I  know."  The  Marquis  had  sat  down 
again;  the  good  priest  looked  at  him  with  astonish- 
ment. 

"One  million,"  pursued  the  gentleman  ironically; 
"one  can  satisfy  a  beautiful  whim  with  one  million. 
I  know  in  Yonne  a  historical  castle  which  is  about  to 
be  sold — quite  in  grand  style — Mansard  and  Le  N6tre 
— the  Marquise  would  like  to  possess  it,  the  biddings 
will  not  go  beyond  eight  hundred  thousand  francs — it 
would  be  gallant  on  my  part  to  offer  to  the  Marquise 
this  royal  gift.  But  she  is  rich  enough.  I  have  only 
this  million.  I  must  think  of  myself;  only  one  thing, 
alas!  would  please  me,  but  that  is  not  to  be  bought. 

"Listen,  my  dear  sir.  I  served  during  the  war  of 
1870  among  the  Zouaves  of  Charrette  with  one  of  my 
cousins — the  Baron  Louis  de  Capdecamp,  who  is  my 
senior  by  fifteen  years;  he  belongs  to  a  poor  branch 
of  our  family.  I  have  known  few  men  so  brave. 

"At  Patay,  when  we  rushed  in  the  famous  charge, 
he  looked  at  me  and  shouted  to  me  with  his  laughing 
Kleber  style :  '  Capdecamp,  always  at  the  head ! '  The 
next  minute  he  fell,  with  his  right  arm  crushed.  It 
was  amputated;  he  received  the  military  medal,  and 
he  does  not  wear  the  ribbon  from  humility,  for  he  is 
very  pious.  He  is  sixty-five  years  of  age.  He  has  an 
income  of  three  thousand  francs  for  life;  he  is  too 

[3°4] 


RESTITUTION 

proud  to  accept  any  assistance  from  his  relatives.  He 
lives  in  one  room  on  the  fifth  floor,  Rue  Jacob,  and 
although  one-armed,  cooks  his  meals  himself,  in  order 
to  give  some  money  to  deserving  poverty  which  he 
tries  to  find  out.  He  is  always  decently  dressed ;  when 
he  goes  to  mass  at  Saint- Germain  des  Pres,  you  would 
exclaim  at  the  sight  of  his  lion-like  eyes  and  his  white 
moustache:  'Behold,  honor  passes!'  Three  months 
after  my  marriage,  concerning  which  I  had  not  heard 
one  word  from  him,  I  met  Louis  on  the  Place  de  la 
Concorde;  I  extended  my  hand  to  him;  he  recoiled 
one  step,  cast  on  me  a  terrible  look,  put  his  hand  in 
his  pocket  and  passed  on,  turning  away  his  head. 
Well,  my  dear  Monsieur,"  said  the  Marquis,  in  a 
broken  voice,  '  the  only  thing  that  would  be  agreeable 
to  me,  which  all  the  millions  can  not  give  back  to  me, 
is  a  clasp  of  the  hand  from  my  cousin  Louis." 

The  grand  airs  of  the  Marquis  had  vanished;  he 
was  now  an  unhappy  man  shedding  tears;  the  priest 
was  deeply  moved. 

After  a  few  minutes  the  Marquis  got  up,  wiped  his 
tears,  and  said:  "I  have  just  now  offered  you  a  sad 
sight.  Kindly  excuse  me,  Monsieur;  there  is  no  need 
to  ask  you  to  be  discreet;  discretion  is  the  virtue  of 
priests. 

"I  was  wrong  to  speak  so  severely  of  Renaudel; 
my  having  married  Mademoiselle  Murdock  is  not  his 
fault.  He  is  very  lucky,  because  he  can  purify  his 
conscience  with  money.  Tell  him  that  I  wish  him 
good  luck!  Auguste  will  show  you  the  way  out." 

The  Marquis  rang  the  bell  nervously. 
20  [  3°5  ] 


FRANCOIS  COPPfiE 

In  bringing  this  million  the  good  priest  had  thought 
of  receiving  some  substantial  alms  for  his  poor;  he 
asked  for  none,  and,  besides,  that  money  might  have 
brought  misfortune  upon  them.  Near  the  high  chim- 
ney, under  his  bartered  coat-of-arms,  the  Marquis  re- 
mained motionless — his  eyes  cast  down,  ashamed  of 
his  despair,  of  his  broken  pride.  The  priest  saluted 
him  in  silence  and  left  the  house. 


[306] 


CHAPTER  VI 

CONCLUSION 

QUARTER  past  eleven  already- 
quick,  Rue  de  Clichy!"  cried  the 
priest  to  the  coachman.  The  mist 
had  entirely  gone  now — the  moon 
was  shining,  in  a  luminous  sky  suit- 
ing the  joyful  Christmas  chimes. 

The  Abbe*  Moulin,  exhausted  and 
hungry,  and  much  disturbed  also  by 
what  he  had  heard,  entered  his  room,  and  thought  at 
first  that  the  fog  had  gathered  there;  but  this  fog 
smelled  of  Havana  tobacco.  He  at  last  perceived 
Renaudel  seated  in  an  armchair,  smoking  quietly  his 
eighth  cigar. 

"Here  are  your  receipts,"  said  the  priest. 
"Well  done,  my  dear  Abbe*,"  replied  the  ex-banker, 
rising;  "please  do  not  tell  me  what  you  have  heard. 
You  will  find  under  your  breviary  the  promised  bank- 
note of  one  thousand  francs!  We  are  quits,  however, 
and  although  I  am  not  rich  now,  I  leave  you  five  louis 
extra.  I  will  tell  you  the  reason  why.  I  can  not  take 
to  my  son  the  box  of  leaden  soldiers  with  red  trousers 
for  which  he  asked  me ;  I  don't  wish  him  to  call  to  his 
mind  the  scenes  of  his  childhood.  I  thought,  as  a 
means  of  comfort  to  me,  of  requesting  you  to  go  and 

[307] 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

buy  one  hundred  francs'  worth  of  toys  for  the  sons  of 
your  ragpickers  in  the  name  of  the  American  Noel, 
but  the  express  does  not  wait.  A  last  hand-shake,  my 
dear  Abb£,  and  my  best  thanks." 

The  strange  man  hurriedly  departed. 

The  Abbe*  Moulin  dreamed  a  few  minutes;  he  was 
no  pessimist — he  was  certain  now  that  glory,  health, 
love,  honor  were  not  to  be  bought  with  money,  and  he 
intended  to  thank  God  for  this  when  saying  his  mid- 
night mass. 


THE  CURE  FOR  DISCONTENT 


THE  CURE  FOR  DISCONTENT 


CHAPTER  I 

TOIL  AND  HEALTH 

[UY  the  official  list  of  the  winning 
numbers  of  the  International  Lot- 
tery! Special  edition  with  the  big 
prize  of  five  hundred  thousand  francs! 
Ten  centimes." 

At  the  corner  of  the  Faubourg 
Montmartre  you  could  not  see  the 
two  boys  in  the  twilight  mist  among 
the  crowd;  but  their  voices,  one  a  tenor,  the  other  a 
bass,  were  heard  above  the  noise  of  pedestrians  and 
vehicles. 

Alberic  Mesnard  had  just  left  Cahun  and  Son 
(manufacturers  of  collars,  cuffs,  and  separate  shirt- 
fronts,  Rue  du  Sentier,  in  Paris,  with  branches  in 
London  and  Hamburg).  He  felt  keenly  the  damp 
cold  of  this  winter  evening,  and,  with  the  collar  of  his 
thin  topcoat  turned  up,  was  making  his  way  through 
the  crowd  with  true  Parisian  skill,  when  he  heard  the 
two  boys  shouting: 

"Buy  the  official  list  of  the  winning  numbers  of  the 
International  Lottery!  Special  .edition  with  the  big 
prize  of  five  hundred  thousand  francs !  Ten  centimes ! ' ' 

[3"] 


FRANCOIS  COPPfiE 

"Ah!  "  thought  the  young  man,  "they  have  decided 
upon  the  drawing  of  the  big  prize  at  last;  people 
have  been  waiting  for  the  last  three  years.  I  have  a 
ticket." 

He  intended  to  buy  the  paper,  but  he  had  only  a 
two-franc  piece.  It  was  the  3oth  of  November,  and 
on  the  next  morning  he  would  receive  his  monthly 
salary  of  one  hundred  and  fifty  francs  as  an  employe 
in  the  correspondence  department  of  M.  Cahun's 
house.  Two  francs!  he  wanted  them  for  his  humble 
dinner;  so  he  did  not  change  his  money.  "To-mor- 
row the  papers  will  give  the  list  of  the  winning  num- 
bers, and  I  shall  have  plenty  of  time  to  be  sure  that 
the  half  million  will  not  fall  to  my  share.  I  don't  even 
remember  where  my  ticket  is.p 

Just  then  a  pastry-cook's  boy,  who  pushed  past  him 
roughly  with  his  basket,  very  nearly  poured  all  the 
cream  of  a  piece  of  pastry  and  the  sauce  off  a  shrimp 
plate  upon  his  head,  and  wound  up  by  vituperating 
him.  Alberic  calmly  walked  along  the  slippery  pave- 
ment. There  is  no  more  complete  solitude  than  in  a 
crowd;  thought  is  at  work  and  memory  wakes  up. 
Alberic  was  going  up  Montmartre,  hurrying  on  through 
the  intense  fog  and  recalling  his  sorrowful  youth. 

Decidedly  his  mother  had  acted  imprudently  in  ob- 
taining this  scholarship  hi  a  college  for  him,  and  in 
having  him  crammed  with  Latin  and  impractical 
studies. 

She  knew,  however,  the  misery  of  the  artist's  life  or 
that  of  the  professions.  When  she  married  Mesnard, 
the  painter  of  so  many  dozens  of  oysters,  they  could 

[312] 


THE  CURE  FOR  DISCONTENT 

hardly  get  a  living,  although  Mesnard  was  a  Raphael 
in  painting  oysters.  His  Marennes  oysters,  so  juicy — 
he  received  third  medal  for  them — sold  easily. 

During  the  months  with  the  letter  "r"  they  ate  a 
dozen  Marennes  at  breakfast;  they  were  not  fresh,  as 
they  had  been  opened  early  in  the  morning.  But  in 
the  summer  business  was  bad.  No  more  oysters! 
Mesnard  had  then  tried  to  paint  crawfish,  but  failed. 
Artists  and  picture-dealers,  declared  unanimously,  "He 
is  excellent  in  oyster-painting,  but  inferior  in  painting 
crustaceans." 

They  eked  out  a  poor  living,  however,  as  long  as 
Marennes  were  in  fashion.  In  the  Salon  of  1864, 
Rousselot,  his  rival,  exhibited  his  "Dozen  of  Ostend 
Oysters,"  for  which  picture  he  received  an  award;  and 
amateurs  henceforth  insisted  upon  Ostend  oysters. 
Rousselot's  success  was  only  ephemeral,  for  five  years 
later  Piegealoup  snatched  away  the  sceptre  from  him, 
and  with  his  famous  "Dozen  of  Cancale  Oysters"  very 
nearly  obtained  a  medal  of  honor.  On  the  eve  of 
Piegealoup' s  triumph  Alberic's  father  died,  more  of 
grief  than  of  privation. 

His  comrades  organized  a  sale  of  their  sketches  for 
the  poor  widow;  the  Fine  Arts  School  granted  an 
annual  pension,  and  the  orphan  entered  with  a  scholar- 
ship into  the  College  Louis-le-Grand ;  so  his  mother 
was  not  obliged  to  be  a  housekeeper,  and  could  occupy 
a  small  room  on  the  fifth  floor  in  Montmartre,  knitting 
woollen  stockings  for  her  son. 

Alberic  got  on  well  at  college;  his  professor  con- 
gratulated him  for  his  translation  into  Latin  verse  of 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

Alfred  de  Musset's  Rhin  allemande.  Then  came  su- 
preme satisfaction:  his  poor  mother  died  in  the  arms 
of  a  Bachelor  of  Letters! 

A  Bachelor!  Ah!  of  what  use  was  this  success  to 
Alberic.  On  the  very  day  he  had  translated,  at  first 
sight,  at  the  Sorbonne,  a  passage  of  some  ancient 
writer  upon  the  contempt  of  riches,  he  had  caught 
cold,  because  his  boots  admitted  water  and  he  was 
unable  to  buy  new  ones.  A  Bachelor!  What  good 
had  he  derived  from  his  knowledge  of  the  philosophers 
and  dreamy  poets? 

Why  was  he  not  made  to  learn  the  trade  of  a  joiner 
or  a  plumber,  with  humble  tastes,  sleeping  well  because 
of  physical  fatigue,  and  satisfied  with  wine  drunk  at  a 
bar  at  the  end  of  the  day?  He  envied  the  lot  of  the 
masons  elbowing  him  in  the  crowd — they  were  so  care- 
less about  everything.  For  Alberic  it  was  misery  to 
wear  an  old  frock-coat  and  bad  boots;  it  was  the 
double  anxiety  of  the  man  who  is  tormented  by  his 
thoughts  and  who  can  hardly  earn  his  living;  it  was 
the  pitiful  anguish  of  a  poor  man  who  asks  simultane- 
ously whether  his  soul  is  immortal  and  how  he  shall 
pay  his  laundress's  bill. 

It  was  a  sad  prospect,  for  he  had  little  energy.  He 
had  been  six  years  a  clerk  at  Cahun  and  Son's,  with  a 
small  salary;  his  situation  was  irksome  to  him,  but  he 
clung  to  it. 

At  his  mother's  burial  he  was  overwhelmed  with 
grief.  He  was  only  eighteen  years  of  age;  he  was 
accompanied  by  his  guardian,  a  painter  named  Vert- 
bois,  who  had  in  his  time  won  the  prize  of  Rome,  and 

[3i4] 


THE  CURE  FOR  DISCONTENT 

who,  without  any  talent  or  intrigue,  gained  a  scanty 
living  by  orders  from  the  Government. 

At  that  time  he  was  painting  for  the  Court  of  Ac- 
counts an  allegory  of  vital  interest:  "A  Public  Account- 
ant Discovering  an  Error." 

After  the  funeral  M.  Vertbois  had  taken  the  orphan 
into  his  studio  and  gently  asked  him  what  he  intended 
to  do. 

Albe"ric,  alas!  could  not  answer.  The  principal  of 
the  college  had  asked  him  to  remain  there  as  an  usher, 
in  order  to  prepare  for  a  higher  degree;  but  it  was  a 
hard  task. 

M.  Vertbois  knew  the  Cahuns  well.  They  were  rich 
shirt-makers  whose  name  was  familiar  to  every  one 
through  the  famous  placard  representing  two  "swells," 
one  saying:  "How  do  you  manage,  Viscount,  always 
to  have  such  glossy  linen?"  the  other  replying:  "It  is 
very  simple,  Baron;  I  use  Cahun  and  Son's  dickeys, 
and  I  need  only  to  change  my  shirt  every  fortnight." 

All  this  Cahun  tribe,  beginning  with  old  Abraham 
Cahun,  the  patriarch,  the  great  man,  the  inventor  of 
the  dickeys,  and  afterward  his  sons,  daughters,  sons- 
in-law,  daughters-in-law,  had  had  their  portraits  painted 
by  the  former  holder  of  the  prize  of  Rome;  and  his 
unfailing  brush  had  fixed  upon  the  canvas,  in  richly 
gilt  frames  that  dazzled  the  eyes,  those  Jews,  with 
beaks  of  vultures,  and  all  those  Jewesses,  with  eyes  of 
fortune-tellers,  and  covered  with  large  jewels.  M. 
Vertbois  had  spoken  of  Albe"ric  to  Cahun  and  Son. 

Albe"ric  had  now  been  with  the  firm  for  six  years  and 
never  had  made  much  advance.  The  Cahuns,  ruth- 


FRANCOIS  COPPtfE 

less  Jews,  applied  severely  the  principle  dear  to  all 
the  masters — to  require  as  much  work  and  give  as  lit- 
tle salary  as  possible.  They  had  early  judged  Alberic's 
qualifications:  a  timid  young  man,  arriving  punctually 
at  the  office,  who  wrote  without  grumbling  fifty  letters 
a  day,  beginning:  "In  answer  to  your  honored  letter 
of  the ,"  but  without  any  commercial  genius,  in- 
different to  the  rise  and  fall  of  calicoes,  ignoring  the 
grave  questions  of  shirt-collars.  Upon  the  grand 
theatre  of  European  shirt-making  this  young  man 
would  never  be  anything  but  a  supernumerary,  for  at 
the  age  of  twenty-four,  after  six  years  passed  before  a 
set  of  books  bound  in  green  cloth  of  Cahun  and  Son's 
house,  Alberic  had  reached  only  the  small  salary  of 
i, 800  francs  a  year.  It  was  lucky  for  him  that  his 
masters  were  ignorant  of  his  inclination  for  reverie  and 
lounging.  What  would  they,  Cahun  and  Son,  people 
so  strictly  practical,  have  thought  had  they  known  that 
their  employe  was  fond  of  walking  about  till  midnight 
in  lonely  districts  on  starry  nights;  that  he  opened  at 
times  volumes  of  poetry  at  book-stalls,  and  that  often 
he  had  deprived  himself  of  a  cigar  in  order  to  buy  a 
bouquet  of  violets? 

Six  years!  Good  heavens!  The  finest  six  years  of 
his  youth!  and  in  this  atmosphere  of  ennui — in  this 
abject  poverty! 

Having  walked  up  the  Faubourg  Montmartre  and 
the  Rue  des  Martyrs,  Alberic  reached  the  Boulevard 
Pigalle,  where  in  the  intense  fog  a  tramway's  horn  was 
continually  heard,  and  directed  his  steps  toward  the 
miserable  restaurant  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  Germain- 


THE  CURE  FOR  DISCONTENT 

Pilon  where  he  used  to  take  his  evening  meal;  he  was 
at  times  very  hungry,  but  felt  disgusted,  from  his  very 
entrance,  at  the  odors  of  burnt  grease  in  the  place.  He 
raised  his  hat  in  passing  before  the  counter  where  the 
mistress  sat,  a  short  woman  with  a  face  pitted  like 
Mirabeau's,  and  looked  for  an  empty  seat. 

One  only  remained,  near  the  kitchen  door.  The 
passage  would  have  suited  a  shooting-gallery.  They 
had  prepared  a  series  of  small  tables  opposite  one 
another;  the  cloths  were  stained  with  sauce  and  wine. 

About  thirty  poor  men,  whom  Alberic  knew  by 
sight,  were  eating  voraciously,  and  near  them  their 
shabby  hats  and  coats  were  hanging,  looking  like  a 
file  of  hanged  men. 

Albe"ric  sat  down  at  a  table. 

"  Good-evening,  my  dear  Monsieur  Mesnard,"  said 
some  customer,  seated  near  a  small  table,  extending  his 
hand.  He  was  reading  a  newspaper  and  added 
abruptly,  "Well,  have  you  seen  the  description  of  the 
Session  ?  The  Opportunist  party  is  about  to  abandon 
its  principles  again.  It  is  scandalous!" 

Alberic  had  shivered  on  hearing  these  words,  for  he 
would  be  obliged  to  sit  opposite  one  of  the  greatest 
bores  he  knew;  he  often  avoided  him,  but  on  that 
evening  he  could  not  do  so. 

M.  Mataboul  came  from  the  south  of  France;  he 
had  brown  hair,  shaggy  as  a  bear's;  he  was  a  wine- 
broker,  but  politics  absorbed  his  time.  Early  in  the 
morning,  carrying  a  few  phials  as  samples,  he  called 
upon  small  restaurant-keepers  to  offer  his  Chablis  for 
oysters,  or  any  other  wine,  which  he  warranted  as 


FRANCOIS  COPPtiE 

natural.  But  as  his  time  was  taken  up  with  politics 
he  had  not  much  success  in  his  business,  and  wine- 
dealers  got  rid  of  him  by  humoring  him  on  his  favorite 
subject.  Forgetting  that  he  had  come  to  sell  a  barrel 
of  so-called  St.  Emilion  or  some  baskets  of  pseudo 
Moulin-a-vent,  M.  Mataboul  got  heated  as  he  talked 
and  left  enchanted,  though  without  an  order,  retiring 
with  the  threat,  "Another  such  financial  measure,  and 
we  shall  have  a  bankruptcy! "  or  exclaiming,  "If 
things  go  on  like  this  we  shall  not  have  a  navy  much 
longer!" 

Alb6ric,  trying  to  keep  his  patience,  beckoned  to 
the  ugly  servant  who  had  toothache  and  whose  cheek 
was  wrapped  in  a  handkerchief,  and  ordered  a  frugal 
meal — soup,  bread,  steak  with  potatoes,  cheese,  and 
a  little  wine ;  he  ate  this  bad  food  from  necessity,  while 
he  listened  to  M.  Mataboul,  who  was  indignant  that 
the  Left  party  sided  with  the  Right  and  that  France 
kept  an  ambassador  at  the  Vatican. 

Alberic,  the  poor  clerk,  was  indifferent  as  to  politics, 
and  would  have  readily  admitted  that  M.  Clemenceau 
should  become  the  great  friend  of  M.  de  Cassagnac, 
and  that  the  republic  should  send  a  plenipotentiary  to 
the  Grand  Lama,  provided  that  the  restaurant's  broth 
was  more  savory  and  the  wine  less  sour.  He  asked  for 
his  bill. 

The  suffering  waiter  added  up  the  amount. 

"Two  for  bread,,  five  for  soup,  eight  for  meat,  three 
for  cheese,  six  for  wine;  one  franc  twenty  centimes, 
Monsieur." 

Out  of  his  two-franc  piece  he  received  sixteen  sous' 


THE  CURE  FOR  DISCONTENT 

change,  and  gave  two  to  the  waiter.  Feeling  happy  to 
escape  from  the  southern  accent  of  M.  Mataboul,  he 
was  leaving  the  table,  when  his  tormentor  exclaimed : 

"Monsieur  Mesnard,  it  is  my  turn  now;  I  will  treat 
you  to  coffee  this  evening." 

It  was  really  so,  for  a  few  days  previously  AlbeYic 
had  imprudently  treated  him  to  a  mazagran.  He  first 
thought  of  escaping  from  this  tedious  politeness,  but 
what  was  he  to  do  with  himself  all  the  evening  ?  In  his 
little  room  in  the  Rue  Ravignan  he  had  no  more  coke, 
and  he  could  not  go  to  bed  at  eight  o'clock;  so  he 
yielded.  He  bought  a  ten-centime  cigar,  offered  one 
to  his  friend,  followed  M.  Mataboul  into  a  small  cafe* 
of  habitues  of  the  Boulevard  Rochechouart,  and  there, 
till  nine  o'clock,  opposite  his  half  cup  of  coffee,  empty 
for  some  time,  mad  with  ennui  and  not  having  the 
energy  to  take  leave  of  him,  he  listened  to  the  wine- 
broker  violently  denouncing  the  waste  of  public  money 
on  railways  and  accusing  M.  Jules  Ferry  of  the  last 
epidemic  of  cholera. 

It  was,  indeed,  one  of  the  inconveniences  in  the  sad 
life  of  Alberic,  this  promiscuity  of  the  restaurant  and 
public-house,  which  forced  such  very  annoying  neigh- 
bors upon  him. 

How  many  broken-down  people  had  he  not  known! 
How  much  stupid  talk  full  of  envy  had  he  not  heard 
during  his  humble  meal! 

How  much  time  he  had  lost  in  listening  to  the  art 
theories  of  Gabarel  and  Planchu,  the  two  landscape 
painters,  with  large  felt  hats — one  of  whom  saw  nature 
in  the  colors  of  wine  dregs,  the  other  in  the  colors  of  an 

[319] 


FRANCOIS  COPPfiE 

omelet!  How  many  times  Mastock,  the  orator  of  the 
proletariat,  with  his  prison  beard  and  his  dirty  nails, 
had  solved  in  the  cafe  of  New  Athens,  before  Alberic 
and  others,  all  the  difficulties  of  the  social  question,  and 
cursed  the  infamous  capitalists  for  an  hour,  only  inter- 
rupting himself  to  ask  the  waiter  for  a  wire  for  his  pipe. 

M.  Mataboul  condemned  ministerial  policy  as  to  the 
colonies  with  great  heat,  and  proposed  to  enlist  the 
Bishop  of  Angers  by  force  in  a  battalion  of  Annamite 
marksmen,  as  that  prelate  had  just  voted  for  some 
millions  for  the  Tonquin  campaign.  He,  M.  Mata- 
boul, was  becoming  in  the  end  such  a  nuisance  that  in 
spite  of  his  fireless  bedroom  Alberic  resolved  to  return 
home,  and  feigning  a  headache  as  the  pretext  for  in- 
terrupting the  conversation,  left  M.  Mataboul  to  read 
Le  Temps.  The  fog  had  become  thicker  and  smelled 
of  soot,  and  the  gas-burners  showed  only  aureoles  of 
yellowish  light. 

"What  dreadful  weather!"  said  Alberic,  shivering. 
He  reached  his  house  through  the  hilly  lanes  and 
walked  up  the  five  flights.  While  unlocking  the  door 
he  heard  in  the  loom  close-by  the  regular  sound  of  a 
sewing-machine . 

"Suppose,"  thought  he  to  himself,  "I  go  and  say 
good-evening  to  my  neighbors.  Madame  Bouquet  is 
not  very  cheerful,  but  little  Zoe  is  so  interesting." 

He  rang  the  bell;  the  noise  of  the  machine  ceased 
abruptly;  a  young  girl,  rather  small,  but  pleasing  and 
looking  neat  in  her  sombre  gown,  opened  the  door. 

"It  is  only  I,  Mademoiselle  Zoe,"  said  Alberic  cheer- 
fully. "How  is  your  mother  in  this  bad  weather?" 

[32°] 


THE  CURE  FOR  DISCONTENT 

A  sweet  smile  shone  upon  Zoe's  face;  she  was  not 
exactly  pretty — her  complexion  was  pale,  her  mouth 
rather  large,  but  what  sincerity  in  her  eyes!  what  an 
air  of  sweet  temper! 

"Oh,  thanks,  Monsieur  Mesnard,"  was  her  reply, 
"mamma  is  pretty  well.  Come  in,  I  beg  of  you,  she 
will  be  so  pleased  to  see  you." 

Alberic  entered  the  small  dining-room,  which  served 
as  a  boudoir  and  reception-room ;  their  one  other  room 
was  a  bedroom.  This  room  was  very  clean,  but  en- 
cumbered by  a  large  armchair  near  the  stove,  in  which 
was  sitting,  with  a  royal  dignity,  a  lady  in  black,  about 
fifty  years  of  age,  who  must  have  been  formerly  very 
beautiful.  She  did  not  look  as  if  she  were  always 
amiable,  and  she  seemed  accustomed  to  homage. 
Alberic  bowed  respectfully  before  her,  but  she  pre- 
served her  impassibility  and  replied  by  a  simple  gesture 
of  the  hand  such  as  a  sovereign  offers  to  a  courtier. 

She  occupied,  truly,  too  much  of  the  room,  this  old 
lady,  so  solemn,  with  her  widow's  cap;  her  delicate 
hands  were  crossed  upon  her  lap;  her  feet  rested  on  a 
stool  near  the  stove.  She  seemed  so  egotistical  that 
her  only  daughter,  Mademoiselle  Zoe,  was  lost  in  the 
shade  of  such  an  imposing  lady;  but  Zoe  resumed  hef 
work  before  her  sewing-machine,  moving  the  pedal 
with  her  right  foot  and  making  the  stuff  slip  under  the 
needle. 

Formerly,  I  say,  the  old  lady  had  been  a  beauty. 
It  was  for  this  reason  that  the  late  Bouquet,  a  cashier 
in  a  large  drapery  house,  had  married  her  without  a 
dowry;  she  had  refused  to  spoil  her  hands  by  house- 
si  [321] 


FRANgOIS  COPP&E 

hold  work,  and  also  on  account  of  her  beauty  her  hus- 
band had  worked  hard  and  saved  nothing. 

How  can  you  help  surrounding  with  luxury  a  beauty 
whom  you  adore?  You  can't  refuse  her  a  pleasure, 
a  jewel,  a  fine  gown!  The  unwary  cashier  had  left 
his  widow  penniless,  and  at  the  moment  when  their 
daughter,  wearing  short  skirts  till  she  was  eighteen 
years  of  age,  had  become  almost  of  marriageable  age. 
The  beauty's  elegant  furniture,  her  diamonds,  her 
Erard  piano,  seldom  touched,  had  been  sold;  this 
realized  a  few  thousand  francs,  which  enabled  them 
barely  to  subsist  in  Montmartre. 

This  money  was  not  yet  exhausted,  because  Zoe, 
who  had  inherited  her  father's  activity,  had  under- 
stood their  sad  situation;  she  had  bought  a  sewing- 
machine  and  worked  hard,  lavishing  her  cares  upon 
her  mother,  who,  accustomed  to  this  self-sacrifice,  ac- 
cepted them  selfishly. 

Her  position  was  that  of  an  unhappy  beauty  who 
bore  adversity  with  great  courage. 

Zoe  worked  till  two  o'clock  every  morning,  but  then 
it  was  right  that  she  should  do  so,  as  her  mother,  when 
their  ruin  came,  had  given  up  wearing  silk  chemises 
and  dismissed  her  manicure.  Besides,  Zoe  was  of  the 
same  opinion,  admiring  the  fortitude  of  her  mother. 
When  in  the  morning  she  laced  up  her  boots,  the  widow 
thanked  her  with  the  haughty  sweetness  of  Marie 
Antoinette  in  her  prison  as  she  thanked  the  gendarme 
on  duty  for  putting  out  his  pipe,  and  Zoe's  heart  was 
full  of  admiration,  pity,  and  gratitude.  Alberic  was 
the  only  lodger  with  whom  these  ladies  were  on  friendly 

[322] 


THE  CURE  FOR  DISCONTENT 

terms;  he  had  been  the  confidant  of  Madame  Bou- 
quet, and  was  called  upon  to  be  a  witness  of  her  cour- 
age in  the  midst  of  her  reverses.  He  was  flattered, 
no  doubt,  but  Zoe's  sweet  eyes  were  also  the  incentive 
for  his  occasional  visits. 

"Monsieur  Mesnard,"  said  the  old  lady,  "it  is  very 
kind  of  you  to  come  to  see  us.  In  better  times  I  should 
have  offered  you  a  cup  of  tea;  when  my  husband  was 
alive  tea  was  served  at  ten  o'clock,  and  I  could  only 
drink  Caravan  tea.  Monsieur  Bouquet  was  compelled 
to  buy  it  at  the  Chinese  shop,  as  one  can  not  trust  ser- 
vants. But  to-day  we  have  no  longer  that  small  lux- 
ury. Zoe,  when  she  hears  me  cough  in  the  night, 
insists  upon  bringing  me  egg  and  milk.  She  does 
wrong!  I  am  ready  to  put  up  with  all  privations." 

Zoe  lifted  toward  Alberic  her  moist  eyes,  which 
seemed  to  say:  "Is  not  my  mother  admirable?"  while 
she  kept  on  working  to  gain  the  price  of  eggs,  sugar, 
and  orange-water. 

"Zoe  is  quite  right  to  take  care  of  you,  Madame," 
said  Alberic;  "it  is  a  consolation  for  you  to  be  so  ten- 
derly loved." 

"No  doubt,"  replied  the  old  lady,  dryly,  looking  at 
Alberic  from  head  to  foot,  as  if  she  had  been  a  duchess 
dowager,  a  prisoner  during  the  Reign  of  Terror,  and 
he  a  jailer,  wearing  a  cap  with  a  fox's  tail  and  calling 
out  the  names  of  those  doomed  to  the  scaffold.  "No 
doubt  Zoe  is  a  good  girl  and  understands  the  duties  of 
our  position — but  I  regret  having  alluded  to  our  pov- 
erty. I  often  declare  to  Zoe  that  complaints  are  un- 
worthy of  a  proud  soul,  and  are  of  no  avail.  When 

[323J 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

we  have  to  use  paraffine,  which  is  dreadful  to  me,  what 
is  the  use  of  regretting  the  beautiful  real  Carcel  lamps 
which  formerly  lighted  my  little  sitting-room  ?  Silence 
is  the  chief  beauty  of  misfortune." 

The  machine  was  kept  working  away,  and  Zoe's 
eyes,  looking  to  Alberic,  shone  with  enthusiasm  for  the 
maternal  fortitude.  In  vain  the  young  man,  annoyed 
by  the  faded  beauty's  egotism,  wished  to  change  the 
conversation.  Madame  Bouquet  kept  on  alluding  to 
her  courage  in  adversity;  for  instance,  she  said  that 
the  heat  of  the  stove  gave  her  a  headache,  and  that  in 
better  times  in  the  past  she  would  have  tolerated  only 
a  wood-fire  in  an  open  grate,  but  she  added  that  her 
heart  was  too  sensible  to  yield  to  the  least  complaint 
against  an  economical  system  of  heating,  though  she 
knew  it  would  shortly  bring  her  to  the  grave. 

Alberic  felt  abashed  as  he  listened  to  Madame  Bou- 
quet, but  at  times  he  cast  a  glance  on  Mademoiselle 
Zoe,  and  after  all  she  was  the  object  of  his  visit.  For 
some  time  past  the  sewing-machine  was  not  the  only 
thing  palpitating  in  the  house ;  the  two  hearts  of  Al- 
beric and  Zoe  had  begun  to  beat  very  strongly.  But 
love — marriage — that  was  a  luxury  for  the  rich.  Was 
not  Zoe  devoting  herself  entirely  to  her  mother?  And 
the  poor  clerk  of  Cahun  and  Son,  having  a  salary  in- 
sufficient even  for  his  own  wants,  how  could  he  think 
of  marrying  a  poor  girl  having  a  load  on  her  back? 
It  would  be  midsummer  madness! 

Ten  o'clock  sounded  from  the  clock  in  the  Louis 
XVI  style — the  last  vestige  of  the  fine  furniture  of  for- 
mer times;  Alberic  got  up  to  take  leave. 

[324] 


Zoe's  eyes,   looking  to  Alberic,   shone! 


the  Original  Painting  by  N.    Briganti.] 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

*»  K;ivc  to  use  paraSine,  which  is  d  to  me,  what 

the  beautiful  real  Carcel  lamps 
iled  my  room  ?    Silence 

jty  of  n 

chine  was  \-  ad  Zoe"'s 

g  to  Alb6ric. 
1  fortitude.     In 
'he  faded  b< 

conversatior.  .ept  on 

her  courag;  instanci  '.hat 

the  he,  and  that  in 

better  tii  nerated  only 

a  v,  >ut  she  added  that  her 

heart  w^Jb  «$r$fct  Ql  «fflfl°\o^N?  fcSRwmplaint 
against  ait/^^i&ngtc^^^Qn^^ch^t;^]  though  she 
knew  it  would  shortly  bring  her  to  the  ^rave. 

Alb^ric  felt  abashed  as  he  listened  to  Madame  Bou- 
quet, but  at  times  he  cast  a  glance  o;  moiselle 
Zoe",  and  after  all  she  was  the  object  of  his  visit.     For 
some  time  past                                                  ;:he  only 
thing  p ;.                                                      -arts  of  Al- 
beric  and  Zoe*  had  begun  to  b               strongly.    But 
Carriage — tiiat  v.                                 rich.    Was 
oting  herself  entirely  to  her  mother?    And 
r  clerk  of  Cahun  and  Son,  having  a  salary  in- 
••t  even  for  his  own  wants,  how  could  he  tliink 
of  marrying  a  poor  girl  having  a  load  on  her  be 

midsummer  madness! 

Ten  o'clock  sounded  from  the  cl'  Louis 

the  last  vestige  of  the  fine  furniture  of  for- 
Mbe*ric  got  up  to  take  lea\ 
[324] 


THE  CURE  FOR  DISCONTENT 

Madame  Bouquet  dismissed  him  with  nearly  as 
much  cordiality  as  that  in  which  the  resident  of  the 
court  of  assizes  invites  a  witness  to  go  and  sit  down 
after  his  evidence,  but  he  was  escorted  by  Mademoi- 
selle Zoe  to  the  threshold,  and  received  from  her  a 
sweet  smile,  which  meant,  "You  do  not  displease  me, 
and  I  know  well  that  I  am  to  your  taste,  but  it  is  not 
possible." 

Alas!  the  feelings  of  poor  people  are  similar  to  the 
November  rosebuds;  they  bud,  but  do  not  open. 
Alberic  went  up  to  his  room,  which  was  of  the  tem- 
perature of  Iceland;  he  hastened  to  put  himself  be- 
tween his  icy  sheets  and  became  a  prey  to  violent 
despair.  Never  had  he  suffered  so  keenly  through  his 
misery,  but  his  anxieties  were  overcome  by  sleep.  He 
was  young,  and  could  not  yet  understand  the  beautiful 
line  of  Saurin  in  the  tragedy  of  Spartacus:  "Ah!  how 
long  the  night  is,  when  sorrow  can  not  be  assuaged!" 

He  cursed  his  fate  and  slept  soundly. 

The  next  morning  he  awoke  at  seven — the  offices 
opened  at  eight  in  the  Rue  du  Sentier — and  he  noticed 
that  the  fog  had  lifted,  that  the  sky  was  clear.  Al- 
though the  water  was  frozen  in  his  basin,  Alberic 
dressed  quickly,  came  down  the  five  flights  of  stairs, 
spent  eight  sous  out  of  the  ten  remaining  for  a  cup  of 
coffee,  and  as  he  would  receive  his  salary  on  his  arrival 
at  the  office,  he  bought  a  cigar  with  his  last  penny. 
On  the  pavement  of  the  Rue  Breda,  a  man  with  a  cap 
and  a  shabby  woolen  waistcoat,  looking  like  an  honest 
old  workman,  walked  up  to  his  side,  and  stretching 
forth  his  gnarled  hand,  whispered  to  him:  "No  work 

[325] 


FRANCOIS  COPPfiE 

—  eaten  nothing  since  yesterday  morning — charity, 
please." 

Alberic  was  forced  to  hasten  his  steps,  looking  like 
a  selfish  man  refusing  alms;  he  felt  that  most  bitter 
of  pains,  a  poor  man's  grief  at  being  unable  to  assist 
a  poorer  one. 

He  presented  himself  at  the  office  treasury,  quite 
sad. 

"Well,  Mesnard,"  said  the  old  Jewish  cashier,  as  he 
gave  him  a  one-hundred-franc  note  and  fifty  francs  in 
gold,  "well,  they  have  drawn  it  at  last,  the  big  prize, 
those  dilatory  directors  of  the  International  Lottery. 
Last  night  you  could  not  walk  on  the  boulevards!  And 
I  have  heen  stupid  enough  to  take  five  tickets,  and  my 
hundred  sous  are  lost." 

"As  for  me,  Monsieur  Schwab,"  replied  Alberic,  "I 
shall  not  even  have  the  disappointment  of  not  finding 
my  number  on  the  list.  I  don't  recollect  where  I  have 
put  it." 

As  he  opened  his  portfolio  to  put  in  his  bank-note, 
he  perceived  a  blue  paper  projecting  from  its  leather 
pocket.  It  was  his  lottery  ticket. 

"By  Jove!  here  it  is,  and  it  is  the  number  three  mil- 
lion, nine  hundred  and  eleven  thousand,  four  hundred 
and  fifty-seven." 

"Then,  my  dear  Monsieur,  allow  me  to  give  you  Le 
Petit  Journal  containing  the  list,"  said  the  cashier. 
"I  am  sure  it  is  correct,  for  I  have  compared  it  with 
the  one  I  bought  yesterday.  I  have  not  even  won  one 
of  the  small  prizes  of  one  thousand  francs." 

Alberic  could  not  help  smiling  at  the  cunning  of  the 
[326] 


THE  CURE  FOR  DISCONTENT 

old  Jew;   Father  Schwab  was  indeed  scrupulously  at- 
tentive in  all  circumstances. 

"Let  us  see  at  once,"  exclaimed  Alberic,  joking. 
"But,  as  you  know,  I  am  very  exacting — it  is  a  great 
sum  I  want  or  nothing!" 

Holding  the  paper  in  one  hand,  his  ticket  in  the 
other,  he  repeated: 

"Let  us  see!" 

Suddenly  he  began  to  tremble,  and  turning  fright- 
fully pale,  opened  his  eyes,  and  uttered  a  cry  of  surprise 
and  a  deep  sigh. 

The  number  of  the  big  prize  was  the  same  as  that 
of  his  ticket!  He  had  won  five  hundred  thousand 
francs! 

Then  he  opened  his  mouth  and  said  in  a  hoarse 
voice:  "I — I—  A  rush  of  blood  occasioned  a 
great  buzzing  in  his  ears,  he  staggered,  recoiled  three 
steps  and  sat  down,  with  his  knees  tottering  under 
him,  on  the  velvet  lounge  near  the  desk.  Old  Schwab 
rushed  out  from  the  rails  of  his  desk,  calling  for  help; 
several  employes  ran  up  and  lavished  their  cares  on 
Alberic.  He  got  up  abruptly,  waving  his  lottery  ticket 
above  his  head  with  the  gestures  of  a  madman;  he 
burst  out  laughing,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  and  shouted 
with  all  his  might:  "I  have  won  the  big  prize,  the  five 
hundred  thousand  francs!" 

If,  instead  of  these  people,  choked  in  the  bitterness 
of  their  envy,  there  had  been  one  calm  witness,  he 
would  have  shivered  before  this  man  intoxicated  with 
happiness  and  would  have  thought  that  extreme  joy 
is  a  terrible  thing! 

[327] 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  FIRST  PLUNGE 

F  you  are  fond  of  lounging,  you  have 
most  likely  observed,  gazing  with  a 
fascinated  stare,  before  the  windows 
of  Very  at  the  Palais  Royal  or  out- 
side Potel  and  Chabot's  place  in  the 
Rue  Vivienne,  one  of  those  men  who 
wander  over  the  pavement  of  the 
streets  of  Paris  and  keep  on  wearing, 
till  the  bright  days  of  June,  an  old  paletdt  with  a 
moth-eaten  fur  collar,  and  in  winter  shivering  under 
an  alpaca  coat  faded  by  the  last  dogdays.  It  makes 
you  shiver  also  to  see  the  famished  glance  cast  by 
such  a  poor  creature  upon  the  baskets  of  hothouse 
fruit,  the  clusters  of  partridges  and  splendid  quails, 
the  fat  turkeys  seasoned  with  truffles.  Have  you  at 
times  observed  the  flame  of  desire  shining  in  the  eyes 
of  a  collegian  with  a  budding  beard  who  is  contem- 
plating, at  a  hair-dresser's  window,  a  fine  figure  in 
wax  in  a  very  low  bodice,  holding  upon  her  little  finger 
in  an  affected  attitude  the  lace  of  her  rose-colored 
stays  ?  It  was  in  that  state  of  great  desire  that  Alberic 
had  lived  hitherto,  like  a  poor  man  before  the  window 
of  an  eating-house,  or  a  young  sentry  of  the  Turkish 
army  looking  through  the  keyhole  of  the  harem. 

[328] 


THE  CURE  FOR  DISCONTENT 

And  suddenly  he  was  rich;  he  was  on  the  point  of 
having  half  a  million  in  the  bank,  and  all  the  pleasures 
of  life  were  before  him.  He  would  certainly  not  buy 
stocks  and  live  on  his  income  in  perfect  indolence; 
he  had  wished,  for  some  time  at  least,  to  enjoy  life 
as  much  as  he  had  hitherto  been  prevented  from  do- 
ing so;  to  live  as  a  nabob  without  refusing  himself 
any  fancy,  and  to  have  a  taste  of  all  fruit  that  might 
tempt  him. 

"Life  owes  me  this  gratification,"  thought  he,  feel- 
ing in  his  pocket  his  precious  lottery  ticket.  "I  wish 
to  obtain  compensation  for  my  years  of  misery,  and  I 
shall  be  satisfied  only  after  spending  one  hundred 
thousand  francs.  After  that  we  shall  see  that  enough 
will  still  remain  to  be  independent."  Alberic's  heart 
was  not  selfish,  so  he  said  to  himself,  "I  shall  do  some 
good  with  it,  too."  As  soon  as  it  was  known  he  had 
won  the  big  prize  he  became  the  lion  of  the  day. 
Twenty  reporters  caught  him  as  he  jumped  out  of  his 
bed  in  his  humble  room  in  the  Rue  Ravignan;  they 
depicted  his  room,  his  person,  and  for  two  days  he 
Was  the  subject  of  newspaper  articles. 

At  once  the  thick  cloud  of  Parisian  ravens  swooped 
down  upon  the  lucky  man.  Beggars  rushed  to  him 
from  the  four  cardinal  points;  the  crafty  Alsatian 
who,  having  chosen  to  remain  French,  was  unable  to 
conceal  his  Marseilles  accent;  the  humble  inventor 
who  exhibits  a  bald  head ;  the  swindler,  full  of  effront- 
ery. He  received  numerous  letters,  full  of  errors, 
sealed  with  crumbs  of  bread  and  swollen  by  torn  and 
greasy  testimonials;  he  heard  those  entreating  voices 

[329] 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

accompanied  by  the  odor  of  absinthe.  He  was  also 
favored  in  his  humble  room  with  the  visit  of  a  pro- 
moter, with  a  fur-lined  topcoat  and  a  heavy  gold  chain, 
who  wished  by  force  to  make  him  take  a  founder's 
share  in  an  infallible  affair,  a  live  enterprise,  namely, 
to  try  to  find  the  treasure  of  the  Armada!  A  respect- 
able father  of  a  family,  who  diffused  an  odor  of  cassia, 
told  him  he  would  shoot  himself  on  the  spot  if  he  could 
not  get  two  hundred  francs  which,  in  his  delirium, 
he  had  taken  from  his  employer's  cash-box  to  feed  his 
five  young  children,  of  whom  two  were  twins.  Since 
Alberic's  luck  had  become  known,  not  a  day  had 
passed  without  his  being  requested  by  letter  to  take 
an  interest  in  a  young  lady,  twenty  years  of  age,  very 
pretty,  of  refined  education;  she  would  travel  will- 
ingly with  a  gentleman,  alone.  He  was  asked  to  buy 
a  castle  surrounded  by  a  park  of  one  hundred  times 
two  acres  and  a  half,  and  to  insure  his  eternal  salva- 
tion by  subscribing  largely  to  the  rebuilding  of  a  re- 
ligious edifice. 

Disgusted  at  the  sight  of  this  swarm  of  flies  which 
hovered  round  him  as  they  would  round  a  carrion,  and 
wishing  all  these  people  to  lose  sight  of  him,  Alberic 
resolved  to  leave  his  lodgings  immediately. 

"To  all  who  come  to  ask  for  me,"  said  Alberic  to 
his  concierge,  "answer,  'Gone  away  without  leaving 
any  address.'  Send  my  letters  to  the  Hotel  Conti- 
nental, where  I  shall  sleep  to-night.  I  shall  keep  my 
rooms,  and  I  pay  you  now  a  year's  rent  in  advance, 
and  here  are  one  hundred  francs  for  yourself.  Go 
and  fetch  me  a  cab;  bring  my  luggage  down  while  I 

[330] 


THE  CURE  FOR  DISCONTENT 

go  to  bid  farewell  to  Madame  Bouquet  and  her 
daughter." 

He  had  been  rich  just  two  days. 

Cahun  and  Son,  on  receiving  his  resignation,  had 
showered  attentions  on  him,  and  had  advanced  him 
a  few  thousand  francs.  For  the  last  two  days  he  had 
often  thought  of  his  fair  neighbors,  who  had  been  the 
first  to  congratulate  him  on  his  good  luck.  As  he 
intended  to  make  some  people  happy,  he  wished  to 
begin  with  them.  But  how?  These  ladies  were 
proud;  they  would  certainly  be  offended  by  a  gift. 

His  fortune  had  soon  caused  him  two  regrets:  one 
to  have  given  alms  to  unworthy  people,  because  he  had 
been  obliged  to  throw  a  few  louis  of  gold  to  annoying 
beggars;  the  other  that  he  could  not  succor  a  mis- 
fortune which  moved  him  so  much. 

Alberic  felt  his  heart  beat  quickly  the  moment  he 
rang  the  bell;  no  doubt  he  had  a  very  easy  means  of 
associating  his  happiness  with  that  of  the  young,  inno- 
cent girl — he  could  marry  her.  But  then,  how  could 
he  become  a  quiet  citizen  so  soon?  How  could  he  so 
quickly  invest  his  capital?  It  was  too  reasonable  a 
scheme;  and  the  terrible  Madame  Bouquet  was  an 
obstacle.  Zoe  would  never  consent  to  separate  her- 
self from  her  mother. 

Alberic  shivered  at  the  idea  of  having  of  live  with 
the  aged  beauty,  who  at  the  dinner  hour  would  get 
herself  up  as  if  she  were  going  to  the  scaffold.  He 
would  not  order  his  first  black  coat  for  the  mayor's 
or  the  vicar's  sake. 

He  wanted  to  know  life  first,  and  to  enjoy  fortune 


FRANCOIS 

and  liberty.  Another  drawback  of  his  money — it 
withered  in  its  bud  the  first  sentiment  of  tenderness 
in  his  heart  and  inspired  him  with  selfishness.  His 
visit  was  very  short.  The  ladies  were  breakfasting 
off  a  veal  cutlet — the  best  part,  of  course,  eaten  by  the 
mother,  and  Mademoiselle  Zoe  picking  the  bone.  He 
apologized  for  disturbing  them,  but  he  had  come  to 
take  leave  of  them,  not  for  good,  however,  he  said,  and 
he  asked  their  permission  to  make  them  an  occasional 
visit  to  know  how  they  were  and  to  pay  them  his 
respects.  He  said  he  should  take  away  with  him  the 
kindest  remembrances  of  his  old  neighbors;  and  he 
assured  them — here  he  seemed  a  little  confused— 
that  if  ever  he  could  be  useful  to  them  in  any  way, 
they  could  rely  upon  his  friendship.  In  the  midst 
of  this  offer  of  service,  made  with  perfect  sincerity, 
Alberic  was  interrupted  by  the  glance  of  Madame 
Bouquet. 

"You  must  know,  Monsieur,"  she  replied,  "that 
you  are  speaking  to  a  lady  fallen  into  misfortune,  but 
very  proud.  Learn  that  the  mother  of  a  girl  of  twenty 
years  of  age  could  not  accept  under  any  pretext  what- 
ever the  least  help  from  an  inexperienced  young  man 
whom  she  hardly  knows.  Don't  suppose  that  your 
chance  fortune  entitles  you  to  play  the  part  of  a  gen- 
erous man — that  is  to  say,  an  impertinent  one — with 
a  woman  of  the  highest  character,  who  would  rather 
starve  than  contract  a  debt  of  gratitude  toward  any- 
body." 

Alberic  sought  a  look  from  Mademoiselle  Zoe",  but, 
being  overawed  by  her  mother,  she  kept  her  eyes 

[332] 


THE  CURE  FOR  DISCONTENT 

fixed  on  her  plate.  So,  after  a  few  icy  words,  Alberic, 
feeling  offended,  withdrew  abruptly. 

"May  they  go  to  hades,  the  haughty  fools!"  he  mur- 
mured, in  descending  the  stairs.  "I  shall  not  be  in 
a  hurry  to  pay  them  another  visit."  He  jumped  into 
the  cab;  the  concierge,  with  his  head  uncovered, 
opened  the  door  respectfully  and  ordered  the  man  to 
drive  to  the  Hotel  Continental.  Although  dressed  in 
his  best  clothes,  Alberic  was  received  coolly  there  on 
account  of  the  slightness  of  his  luggage;  they  thought 
of  lodging  him  at  the  top  of  the  house,  but  a  piece  of 
twenty  francs  taught  the  servant  with  a  gold  band 
round  his  cap  that  one  must  not  judge  the  new  lodger 
by  his  appearance,  and  Alberic  was  installed  on  the 
second  floor  in  a  pretty  room. 

The  servants  were  inspired  with  the  greatest  respect 
when,  on  going  to  the  telephone,  he  sent  for  a  few 
celebrated  purveyors.  They  ran  to  bring  the  boot- 
maker and  the  tailor,  who  justified  the  proverb,  "the 
ill-dressed  tailor,  the  untidy  shirt- maker. "  But  they 
were  great  artists,  and,  thanks  to  the  words  "  ready 
money"  and  "in  advance,  if  you  like,"  they  promised 
to  dress  their  client  according  to  the  very  latest  fash- 
ion, entreating  him  to  allow  himself  to  be  guided  by 
them. 

Alberic  gave  them  carte  blanche,  and  the  overjoyed 
tailor  recommended  a  certain  jacket  to  wear  in  the 
morning  ride  on  horseback  as  a  delicious  article. 
Afterward,  to  open  his  eyes  to  the  ways  of  elegance, 
he  warned  him  that  this  coat  could  only  be  worn  till 
noon.  If  at  a  quarter  past  twelve  one  were  to  go  out 

[333] 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

with  this  coat  on,  it  would  simply  mean  dishonor. 
For  afternoon  visits  the  illustrious  artist  would  make 
him  a  jacket,  his  latest,  to  which  he  attributed  nearly 
orthopaedic  qualities,  declaring  that  it  would  confer 
on  a  deformed  man  the  proportions  of  an  Anti- 
nous,  and  asserting  that  this  masterpiece  had  enabled 
several  dandies  among  his  clients  to  contract  rich 
marriages.  With  the  bootmaker  Alberic  had  a  small 
dispute,  for  he  had  stated  that  he  did  not  wish  boots 
with  pointed  toes.  An  intense  grief  appeared  on  the 
artist's  face,  who  exclaimed:  "But,  Monsieur,  think 
of  the  pointed  toes  of  the  Prince  of  Wales!"  Alberic 
understood  that  he  had  been  wanting  in  tact  and 
yielded  directly.  After  some  conversation  with  the 
artists,  he  felt  ashamed  of  his  poor  suit  from  La  Belle 
Jardiniere,  where  he  had  bought  clothes  formerly,  and 
he  was  sorry  he  was  obliged  to  wear  it  a  little  longer. 
But  then  he  thought  of  his  fortune,  and  self-confi- 
dence came  back  to  him.  "Bah!"  said  he,  "I  am  not, 
after  all,  worse  dressed  than  an  English  tourist." 

At  dinner-time  he  entered  the  dining-room  proudly, 
dazzling  with  electric  light,  objected  to  dine  at  the 
table  d'hote,  and  asked  for  a  separate  table.  At  once 
the  waiters  became  zealous.  Guided  by  the  advices 
of  a  waiter,  who  dictated  his  menu  with  Napoleonic 
decision,  Alberic  enjoyed  a  first-class  dinner,  drank 
a  bottle  of  Pontet  Canet,  brought  by  the  butler  (in  an 
osier  crate)  with  as  much  precaution  as  if  it  had  been 
a  princely  child,  newly  born,  whose  frail  existence 
might  have  been  endangered  by  a  false  movement. 

While  taking  his  coffee  and  smoking  a  Havana  cigar 

[334] 


THE  CURE  FOR  DISCONTENT 

adorned  with  a  red  paper  ring,  upon  which  were  printed 
these  words,  "For  the  Nobility"  (which  was  indeed 
flattering),  Alberic  confessed  his  inexperience  as  a  man 
of  pleasure.  He  was  rich,  yet  he  could  not  properly 
order  a  pair  of  trousers  or  a  dinner.  A  guide  was 
necessary,  a  friend  to  introduce  him  to  pleasure-par- 
ties. Where  should  he  find  him?  Eh!  By  jingo! 
had  he  not  his  old  comrades  at  college?  Timid  and 
proud,  because  poor,  he  had  lost  sight  of  them  for 
some  time;  with  his  salary  of  eighteen  hundred  francs 
a  year,  how  could  he  preserve  ties  of  friendship  with 
young  men  whose  pockets  were  well  lined?  No,  it 
was  impossible;  but  now  he  was  on  the  same  footing 
with  these  sons  of  rich  families;  surely  he  would  find 
at  least  one  of  them  to  assist  in  his  education. 

He  soon  found  a  large  number  of  friends. 

There  were  various  reasons  why  he  should  have 
met  with  a  kind  reception  from  many  of  his  old  com- 
rades, for  the  winner  of  a  great  prize  meant  a  good 
acquaintance.  Alberic  offered  his  old  schoolfellows  a 
princely  breakfast,  with  truffles,  and  great  familiarity 
reigned. 

.  Touching  remembrances  of  college  were  evoked, 
such  as  a  story  about  the  rearing  of  silkworms  inside 
the  desks. 

Alberic  was  pleased  to  renew  acquaintance  with 
big  George  Bordier,  who  was  so  lazy  at  college  and 
was  now  an  employe  in  the  Exchange  and  well  known 
in  the  sporting  world.  He  saw  again  little  Santelet, 
formerly  so  turbulent  in  the  English  class,  who  had 
become  something  of  a  journalist,  had  collaborated 

[335] 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

in  some  librettos  of  operettas,  and  went  behind  the 
scenes  in  the  small  theatres.  Alberic,  though  amiable 
toward  his  other  comrades,  who  were  nearly  all  mar- 
ried, intended  above  all  to  cultivate  the  friendship  of 
these  two  frequenters  of  the  boulevard,  who  had  re- 
mained bachelors  and  were  full  of  levity;  they  were 
just  the  friends  to  guide  him  into  this  Parisian  life 
he  was  sighing  for  with  the  ardor  and  ignorance  of 
a  starving  man  from  Peru,  or  of  a  Chilian  who  had 
just  arrived. 

The  fat  Bordier  and  the  little  Santelet  appreciated 
the  preference  of  their  dear  comrade,  and  gave  him 
a  proof  of  their  sympathy.  At  the  hour  of  the  petits 
verres,  amidst  the  smoke,  when  the  guests,  all  speaking 
at  the  same  time,  produced  a  noise  similar  to  the  croak- 
ing of  a  hundred  frogs  in  a  marsh,  the  stockbroker's 
clerk  took  Alberic  into  the  recess  of  a  window  and 
entreated  him,  for  his  own  interest,  to  put  twenty- 
five  or  thirty  thousand  francs  into  an  affair  of  great 
promise — an  insurance  company  against  losses  in 
gambling,  a  proposal  which  he  received  with  a  Mach- 
iavellian air.  "We  will  speak  of  it  again,"  said  he. 
The  journalist  showed  his  great  joy  at  having  met 
again  an  old  friend  by  borrowing  from  him,  for  a  few 
days,  or  forever,  the  small  sum  of  ten  louis  in  gold. 

With  such  masters  Alberic  made  rapid  progress  in 
the  art  of  fast  living. 

A  clever  upholsterer,  particularly  skilful  in  increas- 
ing the  amount  of  a  bill,  furnished  an  entresol  for  him 
in  a  new  house  in  the  Rue  de  Chateaudun,  where  he 
laid  such  heavy  hangings  and  deep  carpets  that  one 

[336] 


THE  CURE  FOR  DISCONTENT 

might  have  believed  it  had  been  specially  arranged  to 
commit  a  murder  and  to  stifle  the  cries  of  the  victim, 
and  Alberic  filled  the  room  with  so  many  articles  that 
he  could  not  move  for  fear  of  breaking  a  piece  of 
china. 

He  adorned  the  walls  with  so-called  examples  of 
good  masters,  quite  small  but  in  enormous  frames; 
one  was  a  false  Diaz,  a  very  indifferent  autumn  scene; 
another  was  a  false  Ziem,  a  Venice  which  seemed  to 
have  been  painted  with  Chartreuse  and  Curacoa.  He 
had  also  as  many  deities  from  India,  China,  and  Japan, 
hideous  and  of  doubtful  authenticity,  as  if  he  belonged 
to  the  yellow  race.  Launched  suddenly  into  fast  life, 
Alberic  had  a  bed,  modelled  upon  Madame  de  Pom- 
padour's, to  sleep  in  late  and  badly;  a  library  full  of 
selected  volumes,  well  bound,  but  never  read;  he  sel- 
dom breakfasted  in  his  dining-room,  in  the  Renais- 
sance style,  except  when  he  was  unwell;  then  he  took 
a  boiled  egg  and  a  cup  of  tea.  He  had  even  a  valet, 
whose  chief  duty  consisted  in  reading  the  journals  and 
smoking  his  master's  cigars;  he  also  read  the  letters 
forgotten  on  the  table,  and,  thanks  to  his  black  plush 
breeches  and  his  cloth  gaiters,  succeeded  in  pleasing 
some  female  neighbors. 

Albe'ric,  absorbed  by  his  study  of  elegant  life,  was 
rarely  at  home.  Early  in  the  morning  he  jumped  into 
his  brougham  and  went  to  take  a  riding-lesson.  After 
fifteen  days  of  lumbago  he  was  foolish  enough  to  go 
out  with  an  animal  which  was  too  spirited;  he  was 
thrown  from  his  horse,  in  a  heavy  rain,  into  the  mud 
on  the  Avenue  du  Bois  de  Boulogne.  After  an  hour's 
22  [337J 


FRANCOIS  COPPEE 

trouble  he  entered  his  brougham  and  ordered  his 
coachman  to  drive  him  to  the  fencing-room,  where, 
although  he  was  peacefully  inclined,  he  endeavored  to 
learn  how  he  could  kill  a  man  according  to  the  rules, 
in  bending  and  breaking  foils  upon  the  fencing-mas- 
ter's pad.  This  was  done  under  the  directions  of  his 
new  mentor,  big  Bordier,  who  was  addicted  to  all 
sports  and  gymnastic  arts,  and  who  never  missed  a 
race  meeting  nor  an  assault  of  arms. 

At  noon  Alberic  arrived  at  the  Drinkers'  Club, 
which  in  reality  was  called  the  Philharmonic  New 
Club;  the  members  were  persuaded  they  were  all 
people  of  the  best  quality,  and  so  they  conferred  this 
gracious  nickname  on  the  club  in  preference. 

It  was  there,  in  breakfasting  with  his  two  friends, 
Bordier  and  Santelet,  that  Alberic  finished  his  educa- 
tion as  a  modern  dandy.  After  all,  the  question  was 
reduced  to  this:  to  be  up  to  date  or  not  to  be  so,  to 
know  what  was  chic  from  its  opposite.  Thus,  to  be 
furnished  with  a  safe  tip  for  betting  by  a  jockey  was 
quite  the  fashion;  to  smoke  a  short  brier  pipe  in  the 
street  when  going  home  in  evening  dress  was  chic. 
One  more  requisite  was  wanting:  it  was  to  show  one's 
self  as  much  as  possible  fin  de  siecle.  For  instance,  a 
duchess  bearing  an  historical  name  who  used  to  go 
every  Friday  to  applaud  the  artists  of  the  Chat  Noir 
was  named  the  ne  plus  ultra  of  the  fin  de  siecle.  Alberic 
had  some  intelligence  and  the  gift  of  assimilation. 
He  soon  understood  all  these  fine  shades  of  distinction. 
Gambling  went  on  at  the  club  on  a  great  scale.  Every 
night  after  the  theatres  they  played  for  heavy  stakes, 

[3381 


THE  CURE  FOR  DISCONTENT 

and,  of  course,  nothing  was  more  chic  than  to  heat 
one's  brain  till  five  o'clock  in  the  morning  under  the 
large  shade  of  the  green  table,  and  to  lose  or  to  win 
"a  large  sum"  with  an  air  of  great  indifference.  So 
noble  an  employment  of  one's  time  and  faculties  was 
likely  to  tempt  Alberic,  who  was  not  without  self- 
love.  His  counsellors  explained  to  him  how  laudable 
it  was  to  take  other  people's  money  by  the  force  of  a 
knave  of  diamonds,  or  to  empty  one's  purse  into  the 
pocket  of  the  first  comer  by  the  order  of  a  nine  of 
spades. 

This  pupil  in  "high  life,"  who  had  made  such  de- 
cided progress,  used  to  spend  entire  nights  handling 
counters  and  cards  and  repeating  till  dawn  the  har- 
monious monosyllables  "Carte,  Bac,  Buche,"  return- 
ing home  at  the  hour  when  the  sweepers'  work  begins 
in  Paris,  and  waking  up  at  noon  with  his  head  dry 
and  burning  and  a  coppery  taste  in  his  mouth. 

In  the  first  two  months  of  that  kind  of  existence 
thirty  thousand  francs  had  gone,  but  he  had  acquired 
useful  knowledge.  The  tailor  had  no  longer  need  to 
declare  that  one  must  not  wear  a  jacket  in  the  after- 
noon, nor  the  bootmaker  to  induce  him  to  wear  boots 
with  pointed  toes.  He  was  henceforth  incapable  of 
a  single  error  in  the  matter  of  toilet.  He  knew  that  a 
gentleman  who  puts  on  straw-colored  gloves  commits 
an  error,  and  that  it  suffices  to  hold  them  in  one  hand, 
quite  new;  that  for  travelling  one  can,  and  even  must, 
wear  a  shirt  with  colored  front,  but  with  a  white  col- 
lar, and  many  other  important  things.  He  had  caught 
the  English  style  of  walking  in  the  street,  the  head 

[339] 


FRANCOIS  COPPtfE 

thrown  back,  the  elbows  out;  and  the  way  of  holding 
a  thin  umbrella  horizontally,  as  if  it  were  a  heavy 
burden.  How  many  other  useful  notions  he  had  ac- 
quired! Nobody  would  have  dared  to  compare  in  his 
presence  the  race-course  of  Chantilly  with  that  at 
Auteuil. 

The  Eastern  cigarettes  of  the  Hotel  de  Baden  must 
not  be  mentioned,  as  tolerable  ones  could  only  be  got 
at  the  Grand  Hotel;  and  in  spite  of  all  your  asser- 
tions, Voison's  was  the  only  place  where  you  could 
eat  a  salmis  of  woodcock.  Jules  Santelet,  journalist, 
was  one  of  the  greatest  friends  of  Alberic ;  he  was  well 
known  in  the  theatrical  world.  Writing  for  a  journal 
articles  upon  plays  under  the  ingenious  pseudonym  of 
" Petit  Blanc,"  he  kept  Parisian  society  acquainted 
with  scandals  from  behind  the  scenes,  such  as:  "Our 
readers  will  learn  with  pleasure  that  the  little  son  of 
Mademoiselle  Fleur  de  Pecher,  the  charming  singer 
of  the  Bouffes  de  1'Ouest,  is  quite  cured  of  the  whoop- 
ing-cough, from  which  he  was  suffering  for  the  last 
few  weeks.  The  public  will  share,  as  we  do,  the  joy 
of  the  delightful  divetta."  "We  notice  in  the  list  of 
the  jury  for  the  next  assizes  of  the  Seine  the  name  of 
M.  le  Banqueroutel,  the  amiable  manager  of  the 
Theatre  des  Fumisteries  Parisiennes. " 

A  penny-a-liner  announcing  news  so  important,  and 
who  lately,  by  two  lines  in  the  journal,  had  caused  a 
lost  Havana  dog  to  be  brought  back  to  the  soprano  in 
the  Opera  Comique,  must  have  a  certain  influence 
behind  the  punchinello  cloaks;  so  he  had  made  him- 
self a  fifth  collaborator;  his  name  was  on  the  bills, 

[34o] 


THE  CURE  FOR  DISCONTENT 

and  he  received  one  per  cent,  for  his  share  in  some 
librettos  of  operettas.  On  the  boulevard  petty  actors 
bowed  to  him  respectfully,  hoping  that  a  few  words 
of  praise  might  be  inserted  in  his  journal.  Managers 
of  theatres  bestowed  some  attentions  upon  him;  Brail- 
lard,  the  great  comic,  was  very  familiar  with  him; 
and  a  wealthy  man  named  Rouyeaud,  paid  for  his 
applause  of  actors,  invited  him  at  times  for  some  pheas- 
ant-shooting on  a  suburban  estate  he  owned  on  the 
banks  of  fehe  Marne. 

Such  a  man  was  the  very  person  to  introduce  Al- 
beric  into  this  mysterious  paradise  of  the  coulisses 
which,  at  a  distance,  appears  to  stupid  people  to  be 
something  like  Mahomet's  heaven,  while  in  reality 
refined  feelings  are  shocked  by  steep  stairs,  dark  pas- 
sages, scenes  coarsely  painted;  the  comediennes  are 
tattooed  like  cannibals  and  the  odors  are  a  mingling 
of  dust,  stale  perfume,  and  leaking  gas.  And  that's 
the  reason  why  all  Parisians  envy  inwardly  the  luck  of 
the  fireman  on  duty. 

The  Theatre  des  Fumisteries  had  just  produced  a 
play  with  costumes  and  couplets,  with  the  title  Take 
it  Away!  It  is  Heavy!  M.  Santelet,  who,  as  a  petty 
journalist  supposed  to  be  comic,  was  obliged  to  attend 
the  first  performances,  and  asked  Alberic  to  accompany 
him. 

The  play — if  one  might  call  a  tissue  of  incoherent 
scenes  by  that  name — was  very  stupid.  Surrounded 
by  a  few  girls  in  low  bodices,  most  of  them  knock- 
kneed  and  singing  very  false,  the  famous  buffoon, 
Oscar,  gave  out  numerous  puns  borrowed  from  the 

[34i] 


FRANCOIS  COPPfiE 

well-known  work,  A  Million  Puns  for  a  Sou.  The 
public,  however,  was  charmed  with  the  nonsense 
and  applauded  frantically.  Suddenly,  at  the  moment 
when  Oscar — he  had  lately  been  decorated  with  Aca- 
demic palms — had  just  been  slightly  kicked  and  the 
gallery  was  applauding,  a  tall  girl  of  some  beauty, 
whose  hair  was  of  pale  gold,  but  whose  eyes  were  as 
blue  and  ferocious  as  those  of  a  Valkyrie — although 
born  in  Paris  and  a  laundress  by  trade — came  on  the 
stage  and  was  also  applauded  frantically;  but  an 
employe"  of  the  theatre  had  paid  for  this  applause  by 
regaling  the  claqueurs  with  cassia  before  the  perform- 
ance. 

At  the  sight  of  Mademoiselle  Acacia,  Alberic  felt 
that  he  had  quite  lost  his  heart.  She  personated  the 
future  Metropolitan  Railway,  and  her  headdress  was 
a  small  painted  cardboard  locomotive,  with  a  white 
feather  imitating  the  smoke;  she  sang,  with  a  harsh 
voice  and  the  accent  of  Belleville,  several  couplets 
with  the  refrain:  "I  am  the  Metropolitan,  tin,  tin, 
lintintin!"  She  was  indecently  attired,  and  was  for 
that  reason  the  more  applauded.  She  was  a  revela- 
tion, a  great  success;  and  Jules  Santelet  used  this 
sonorous  phrase  when  describing  her  in  the  paper: 
"Mademoiselle  Acacia  was  a  nascent  star  who  sang 
divinely." 

The  journalist,  at  the  first  performance  of  Take  it 
Away!  It  is  Heavy!  introduced  his  friend  to  the 
actress,  and  at  once  she  held  Alberic  fettered  to  her 
triumphal  car.  He  "protected"  this  promising  ar- 
tiste, and  henceforth  spent  delightful  days.  In  order 

[342] 


THE  CURE  FOR  DISCONTENT 

to  be  quite  close  to  her  and  oftener  to  hear  Mademoi- 
selle Acacia  declaring,  to  some  paid  spectators,  in  ecs- 
tasy, that  she  was  "the  Metropolitan,  tin,  tin,  lintin- 
tin,"  Alberic  subscribed  for  a  stall  in  the  first  row. 
He  passed  all  his  evenings  there  and  became  the 
friend  of  the  kettle-drummer,  an  excellent  musician 
who  had  composed  the  score  of  an  opera  in  five  acts 
twenty-five  years  ago — perhaps  a  masterpiece.  In 
order  to  earn  his  bread,  he  played  the  kettle-drum  in 
the  orchestra,  and  even  at  times  other  instruments, 
such  as  the  triangle,  tambourine,  Chinese  hat,  bells, 
and  castanets.  One  evening  during  the  intermission, 
Alberic,  who  counted  upon  Mademoiselle  Acacia's  af- 
fection and  was  on  the  point  of  advancing  a  pretty 
large  sum  to  the  director,  then  in  great  need,  so  that 
she  might  appear  at  the  Opera  Comique,  acquainted 
the  old  kettle-drummer  with  his  scheme.  "Don't  you 
think  she  would  be  charming  in  Les  Dragon  de  Vil- 
lars?"  That  amiable  individual  simply  answered  him 
by  taking  a  pinch  of  snuff  and  saying:  "Are  you 
mad?  that  guinea-hen!"  Alberic,  wounded  in  his 
tender  feelings,  changed  his  seat,  and,  being  now  near 
the  stringed  instruments,  soon  entered  into  familiar 
conversation  with  the  double  bass. 

This  artist,  a  modest  musician  of  military  appear- 
ance, with  the  heavy  moustache  of  a  sergeant-major, 
played  every  night  in  the  orchestra  and  in  the  day- 
time performed  on  the  trombone  in  the  Republican 
Guard.  "Tell  me  frankly  your  opinion,"  Alberic  said 
to  him;  "don't  you  fancy  seeing  her  in  The  Black 
Domino?"  The  musician  was  as  severe  as  the  un- 

[3433 


FRANCOIS  COPP6E 

recognized  maestro.  "That  goose!"  he  exclaimed; 
"you  are  joking!"  Albe'ric  was  rather  discouraged. 
"Have  I  been  mistaken,"  thought  he  to  himself,  "in 
believing  Mademoiselle  Acacia  destined  to  become  a 
great  artiste?" 

For  some  time  back  her  rapacity  had  tired  him. 
She  became  furious  at  hearing  any  celebrated  singer's 
name,  and  she  could  not  pass  near  a  jeweller's  window 
on  the  arm  of  her  lover  without  falling  into  ecstasies 
over  a  bracelet  or  a  brooch.  Besides,  she  had  as  a 
duenna  a  hideous  old  woman,  a  so-called  aunt,  who 
formerly  used  to  cry  fish  in  the  streets,  and  she  an- 
noyed Alberic  by  her  excessive  familiarity.  So  he 
separated  from  Mademoiselle  Acacia,  having  palliated 
his  abrupt  departure  by  the  gift  of  an  ornament  set 
with  sapphires. 

In  order  to  console  him,  his  friend,  the  stockbroker's 
clerk,  fat  Bordier,  who  liked  stables  so  much,  took 
him  to  the  Circus  of  the  Champs-Elysees,  where  all 
Paris  was  then  admiring  a  young  American,  Miss 
Nelly,  who  was  unrivalled  for  standing  on  her  knees 
upon  a  wire  while  juggling  with  cup  and  balls.  No 
doubt  it  was  an  inferior  art,  and  one  for  which  a  gen- 
tleman who  had  just  been  so  generous  toward  a 
"diva"  should  not  have  cared.  But  Miss  Nelly — ah, 
these  fair  women! — was  pretty  enough  to  tempt  St. 
Antony  himself.  Thanks  to  Bordier,  Alberic  got  ac- 
quainted immediately  with  the  young  rope-dancer  and 
was  soon  behind  the  scenes,  that  is  to  say,  in  the  stable 
opposite  the  box  of  the  elephant,  who  looked  at  him 
with  a  bantering  air.  Alberic  was  smitten  with  Nelly, 

[344] 


THE  CURE  FOR  DISCONTENT 

and  in  his  dreams  he  saw  the  beautiful  American  sur- 
rounded by  a  halo  of  cups  and  balls.  She  was,  how- 
ever, a  well-behaved  person — as  is  often  the  case 
among  mountebanks.  The  family  was  numerous. 
There  was  the  grandfather,  who  was  once  celebrated 
for  his  feats  on  the  parallel  bars;  being  old,  he  now 
rested  on  his  laurels  and  only  trained  a  few  clever 
dogs  for  pastime.  Then  there  was  the  father,  called 
the  gunman,  who  carried  a  cannon  on  his  shoulders 
and  bet  two  hundred  francs  that  none  of  the  com- 
pany could  do  the  same.  The  mother  was  a  "strong 
woman,"  who  climbed  nimbly  upon  her  husband's 
shoulders,  and  in  that  difficult  position  she  crossed 
her  arms  and  held  a  human  pyramid  formed  by  her 
three  sons,  who  had  a  fine  future  before  them,  and 
had  had  their  limbs  dislocated  from  the  cradle.  The 
fourth  son,  the  eldest,  being  delicate,  was  the  clown, 
and  had  been  very  successful  in  training  a  pig  to  do 
all  the  performances  of  a  circus.  Now,  this  family 
was  full  of  morality,  and  its  members  never  lost  their 
equilibrium  upon  the  tight-rope  of  virtue.  So  when 
Alberic,  who  came  often  to  the  stables,  dared  to  speak 
of  love  to  Miss  Nelly  under  the  mocking  eyes  of  the 
elephant,  the  charming  girl,  lowering  her  eyes  like  an 
ingenue  of  M.  Scribe's  comedies,  said,  "Speak  to  my 
mother." 

To  encourage  him,  she  gracefully  gave  him  to  un- 
derstand that  her  mother  would  overcome  the  objec- 
tions of  her  father  to  a  son-in-law  inexperienced  in 
gymnastics  who  could  not  present  his  tender  request 
between  two  somersaults. 

[345] 


FRANCOIS  COPPtfE 

In  spite  of  the  beauty  of  Miss  Nelly,  Albe"ric,  who 
had  not  thought  at  first  of  any  such  a  plan,  was  afraid 
of  entering  a  family  capable  of  opening  the  first  quad- 
rille of  the  wedding  ball  by  walking  on  their  hands; 
so  he  made  a  prompt  retreat.  Thus  his  absurdly  use- 
less life  passed  on.  Every  day,  foils  broken  upon  the 
pad  of  the  fencing-master — every  day,  meals  at  the 
restaurant  and  such  discussions  with  the  waiter  as, 
"I  say,  Louis,  you  can't  make  me  believe  that  this 
Pommard  is  the  same  that  you  gave  me  last  time;" 
every  night  spent  in  cards  at  the  club. 

He  had  no  friends  but  parasites,  did  no  good  actions, 
gave  .only  reckless  gifts,  and  squandered  gold. 

Now  he  was  laying  his  homage  at  the  feet  of  a 
pretty  star  of  a  cafe  chantant,  who  amidst  a  blaze  of 
diamonds  sang  the  fine  romance,  destined  to  be  heard 
round  the  world,  "Something  Tickles  My  Back." 
This  kind  of  life  had  lasted  a  year;  Albe"ric  had 
spent  almost  all  of  the  first  hundred  thousand  francs 
of  his  big  prize.  Poor  fool!  spoiled  by  money,  like  so 
many  others. 

One  morning  in  November  Alberic,  who  by  chance 
had  gone  to  bed  before  midnight,  woke  up  about 
seven,  sick  at  heart,  and  began  to  reflect.  "I  must 
admit,"  said  he,  "I  have  led  a  fast  life;  my  excuse  is 
that  I  was  dying  of  inanition,  that  I  threw  myself  too 
gluttonously  upon  food,  and  now  I  can  not  digest  it. 
I  am  truly  blase.  He  who  would  have  prophesied  to 
me  that  in  spite  of  my  fortune  I  should  have  been 
tired  after  a  year  of  all  the  pleasures  of  a  rich  man 
would  have  astonished  me  much.  It  is  so,  however. 

[346] 


THE  CURE  FOR  DISCONTENT 

I  am  bored.  My  comrades  of  the  club  are  stupid, 
and  I  am  sick  of  truffles.  I  won  yesterday  a  bank  of 
three  hundred  and  ninety  louis,  without  the  least  beat- 
ing of  the  heart.  Shall  I  change  my  way  of  living? 
By  Jove,  no !  there  is  some  good  in  all  that  disgusts  me 
to-day,  and  were  I  to  renounce  it,  I  feel  sure  I  should 
regret  it.  Now,  what  I  want  is  a  sort  of  half-moral 
and  half-intellectual  remedy!  I  must  become  again, 
for  a  few  days,  the  poor  devil  I  was  formerly,  and 

after  that " 

Suddenly  he  got  up  and  exclaimed,  clapping  his 
hands:  "I  am  a  fool!  Nothing  is  easier!  I  paid  a 
year's  rent  in  advance.  I  still  have  my  humble  room 
in  the  Rue  Ravignan.  I  can  sleep  there  this  very 
evening.  I  shall  go  and  take  my  meals  at  my  hum- 
ble restaurant,  and  I  shall  spend  an  evening  at  the 
cafe  with  Monsieur  Mataboul.  This  is  the  very  thing 
I  ought  to  do;  I  shall  soon  have  some  new  sensations. 
I  shall  again  try  my  former  miserable  life;  and,  to 
complete  my  scheme,  I  must  make  myself  again  com- 
mercial correspondent  for  ten  hours  at  a  stretch  at 
Messrs.  Cahun  and  Son's.  Ah,  I  am  sick  from  satiety! 
Well,  I  know  what  will  cure  me !  A  cure  for  discon- 
tent! I  feel  sure  the  cure  will  not  take  long.  It 
would  be  surprising  if  nights  in  an  icy  room,  dinners 
at  twenty-two  sous,  and  the  slavery  of  stupid  work 
should  not  restore  me  quickly  to  taste  and  a  desire 
for  a  soft  bed,  good  living,  liberty,  and  idleness.  A 
cure  for  discontent!  I  have  found  the  name  and  the 
cure  itself — I  will  begin  it  from  to-day." 

[347] 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  CURE 

;BERIC  had  made  this  important  res- 
olution when  the  valet,  the  fine  gal- 
lant in  black  plush  breeches,  entered 
the  room,  bringing  a  cup  of  chocolate 
of  a  delicious  perfume;  but  the 
young  man,  who  wished  to  begin  his 
course  of  mortification  at  once,  re- 
sisted this  first  temptation.  "What!" 
exclaimed  the  Don  Juan  of  the  ladies'  maids,  "Mon- 
sieur Alberic  is  dressing  before  I  have  lighted  the 
fire?  Monsieur  does  not  take  his  chocolate?" 

"No,  Joseph,  I  must  go  out  directly  and  be  absent 
for  two  or  three  days.  I  don't  want  you — go!" 

Alberic  recollected  then  that  he  had  still  in  his  ward- 
robe the  suit  of  the  Belle  Jardiniere  establishment 
and  the  topcoat  under  which  he  had  shivered  in  former 
times  on  winter  mornings  when  hastening  toward  his 
office. 

He  cast  upon  his  old  clothes  the  philosophical  glance 
of  Sixtus  Quintus  recognizing  the  old  rags  worn  as  a 
swineherd.  He  dressed  hastily  and  saw,  the  first  time 
for  a  year,  Paris  in  the  early  morning,  with  its  passers- 
by  fully  occupied ;  the  women  hastening  to  their  busi- 
ness, the  noisy  carts  of  milkmen,  and  the  scavengers' 
carts. 

[348] 


THE  CURE  FOR  DISCONTENT 

"By  Jove!"  said  Alberic,  shivering  in  the  damp 
mist,  "my  treatment  begins  to  work.  There  was 
some  good  in  my  coat  lined  with  otter.  I  shall  put  it 
on  again  with  pleasure." 

In  a  dirty  milk-shop  of  the  Rue  de  la  Grange- Ba- 
teliere,  where  he  used  to  go  formerly,  Alberic  drank  a 
wretched  cup  of  coffee,  and  his  stomach  regretted  the 
perfumed  chocolate,  stoically  rejected,  on  which  the 
Lovelace  with  fine  gaiters  regaled  himself! 

"One  more  excellent  effect  of  the  cure,"  thought 
Alberic,  while  spreading  rank  butter  upon  soft  bread; 
"here  is  milk  which  shows  the  great  progress  of 
modern  chemistry,  as  no  cow  is  responsible  for  it! 
Chocolate  is  indeed  very  good,  and  Joseph  makes  it 
well.  Hum!  I  believe  my  cure  will  be  rapid.  Let 
us  go  now  to  Messrs.  Cahun  and  Son.  I  must  de- 
vote myself  to  one  of  my  drudging  days  of  former 
times;  it  will  be  homoeopathy — similia  similibus." 

He  reached  the  famous  shirt-makers'  house  in  the 
Rue  du  Sentier  at  eight  o'clock,  and  found  Father 
Schwab,  the  old  cashier,  at  his  post. 

"You,  Monsieur  Mesnard!"  exclaimed  the  man, 
who  thought  he  was  no  longer  entitled  to  speak  famil- 
iarly to  a  rich  man ;  "  you  so  early — by  what  chance  ?  " 

"Monsieur  Schwab,"  replied  Alberic,  "I  come  to 
ask  you  a  favor." 

"What  is  that,  Monsieur  Mesnard?"  said  the  eager 
cashier. 

"Simply  to  allow  me  to  spend  to-day,  and  perhaps 
to-morrow  and  the  next  day,  in  the  offices  in  helping 
my  ex-comrades  in  the  correspondence,  exactly  as 

[349] 


FRANCOIS  COPPtfE 

when  I  was  a  clerk  here.  I  will  even  request  Mon- 
sieur Abraham  to  give  me  a  lot  of  work  to  do." 

Old  Schwab  was  dumbfounded  and  showed  great 
uncertainty  about  the  mental  state  of  Alberic,  but 
Alberic  burst  out  laughing  and  said: 

"No,  Monsieur  Schwab,  I  am  not  mad,  be  reas- 
sured; anyhow,  I  am  not  suffering  from  the  'mania 
of  riches.'  If  I  mean  to  become  for  a  time  the  poor 
young  man  I  used  to  be,  it  is  simply  to  win  a  bet.  Yes, 
the  gentlemen  of  the  club  have  declared  jocosely  that 
I  could  no  longer,  after  my  year  of  pleasure,  live  one 
day  of  my  former  life.  I  have  accepted  the  bet,  and 
you  will  be  witnesses,  all  of  you,  that  I  shall  fulfil  all 
the  conditions.  You  see  I  wear  now  the  little  suit 
of  the  Belle  Jardiniere  which  I  wore  a  year  ago. 
Every  day  that  I  shall  pass  here  represents  a  good  sum, 
and  it  will  all  end  with  a  good  dinner,  which  I  promise 
to  my  ancient  companions  in  slavery.  Is  it  agreed?" 

The  thought  that  prodigal  Christians  were  going  to 
lose  their  money  in  a  stupid  wager  was  enough  to 
delight  the  old  Hebrew,  and  the  promise  of  a  good 
dinner  pleased  him.  He  left  his  desk  at  once  and 
entered  with  Alberic  into  the  office,  where  a  dozen 
unfortunate  clerks,  bent  over  enormous  books,  added 
up  long  columns  of  figures. 

Alberic,  who  was  received  with  -exclamations  of 
surprise,  shook  hands  with  every  one,  renewed  the 
promise  of  a  good  dinner,  and  took  his  place  at  his 
desk  amid  bursts  of  laughter. 

He  received  a  quantity  of  work  from  M.  Abraham 
splendid  Jew  with  a  black  and  curly  beard, 
[35°] 


THE  CURE  FOR  DISCONTENT 

who  reminded  you  of  those  basso  relievos  of  Nine- 
vah  at  the  Louvre;  he  resembled  the  personages  re- 
presented with  tiaras  on  their  heads  who  carry  lions 
under  their  arms  as  easily  as  a  man  of  business  holds 
a  portfolio  of  black  shagreen,  or  an  old  lady  her 
Havanese  dog.  During  the  whole  day  Alberic  went 
on  with  a  voluminous  correspondence  from  South 
America,  where  Cahun  and  Son  had  established  a 
very  large  trade.  He  answered,  "In  reply  to  your 

esteemed  favor  of  the  "  to  the  orders  of  all  the 

shirtmakers  of  Chili,  Peru,  Brazil,  and  the  Argentine 
Republic.  He  sent  a  very  large  quantity  of  collars 
to  Rio  Janeiro;  cuffs  and  separate  shirt-fronts  were 
also  sent  in  great  numbers  to  Buenos  Ayres  and  Mon- 
tevideo. He  forwarded  in  enormous  packages,  espe- 
cially to  those  towns  whose  names  seem  to  be  the 
warblings  of  birds,  like  Guayaquil,  or  the  cries  of  par- 
rots, like  Caracas,  a  new  article  of  Cahun  and  Son's 
house,  a  cravat  with  a  knot  ready  made  in  red,  flame 
of  punch,  green  apple,  and  lemon-colored  satin,  all  in 
the  very  best  taste  and  representing  the  last  Paris 
fashion  for  the  Spanish-American  republics. 

Strange  phenomenon!  the  voluntary  employe  put  up 
with  the  long  hours  of  work  without  feeling  very  much 
bored.  He  could  not  help  thinking  that  it  was  not 
much  more  wearisome  to  spend  a  day  in  writing  the 
same  phrases  than  to  remain  all  night  at  the  club, 
looking  on  at  the  cards  of  baccarat  as  they  were  con- 
tinually thrown  down. 

"On  this  part  of  the  treatment,"  reflected  he,  "I 
foresee  that  I  shall  be  compelled  to  insist.  Well,  the 

[35i] 


FRANCOIS 

dose  will  be  double,  or  more,  if  necessary,  but  I  am 
not  credulous  enough  to  believe  in  those  moralists' 
nonsense  who  maintain  that  one  gets  tired  less  quickly 
of  a  task  than  of  a  pleasure. " 

Six  o'clock  struck,  and  Alberic  found  that  time  had 
passed  pretty  quickly.  He  took  leave  of  old  Schwab 
and  his  comrades,  promising  to  meet  them  the  next 
day. 

He  was  soon  on  the  boulevard  on  his  way  to  Mont- 
martre.  A  cold,  thin  rain  was  falling,  and  Alberic 
had  no  umbrella.  He  was  about  to  jump  into  a  cab, 
but  suddenly  he  altered  his  mind. 

"No,  I  have  not  the  right  to  do  so,"  said  he;  "to 
be  wet  like  a  poodle  because  an  umbrella  has  been 
forgotten — that  is  another  part  of  the  cure.  A  cab! 
what  a  luxury!  and,  besides,  at  the  end  of  the  month! 
Am  I  mad?  I  have  not  money  enough  to  afford  to 
drive.  Ah!  you  did  not  understand  how  much  more 
agreeable  it  was  to  have  a  brougham  by  the  month, 
with  your  crest  on  the  door!  Well,  I  have  a  twenty 
minutes'  walk  before  I  reach  the  small  restaurant  of 
the  Rue  Germain-Pilon,  and  it  is  going  to  pour!  Well, 
forward!  this  will  all  be  valuable  experience." 

He  was  wet  through  when  he  arrived. 

Nothing  was  changed;  the  narrow  passage  which 
should  have  been  employed  for  a  rope-maker's  work- 
shop was  redolent  of  stew  as  formerly,  and  the  draught 
was  dreadful.  The  house  had  lost  its  reputation, 
since  some  of  the  small  tables  were  empty,  and  only 
ten  hats  with  ten  shabby  overcoats  were  hanging  on 
the  walls. 

[352] 


THE  CURE  FOR  DISCONTETT 

When  Alb£ric  appeared,  the  stout  manageress,  so 
like  Mirabeau,  was  reminding  the  maid  that  a  cus- 
tomer had  asked  three  times  for  his  veal,  and  was  as 
angry  as  the  famous  tribune  addressing  M.  de  Dreux 
Breze.  She  was  indeed  amazed  to  see  him;  she  knew, 
of  course,  that  he  had  won  the  big  prize;  she  could 
not  understand  his  taste  for  the  abominable  cookery 
of  her  restaurant  after  his  year  of  absence.  But  with- 
out caring  for  the  surprise  of  the  ogress,  Alberic  sat 
down  and  looked  at  the  bill  of  fare.  "Monsieur, 
there  is  fish  to-day,"  said  the  servant  with  the  weak 
voice.  This  poor  woman  was  still  the  same;  at  pres- 
ent she  did  not  suffer  from  the  chronic  toothache, 
but  the  index  finger  of  her  right  hand  had  a  whitlow 
and  was  wrapped  up  in  dirty  linen,  the  sight  of  which 
would  have  taken  away  the  appetite  of  a  shipwrecked 
mariner,  even  upon  the  raft  of  the  Medusa. 

"Let  us  see  this  fish!"  said  Alberic.  He  was  served, 
on  a  soiled  plate,  with  very  indifferent  mackerel.  He 
was  shocked  at  it.  "By  Jove!"  thought  he  to  him- 
self, "my  treatment  is  forced  upon  me  in  all  its  rigor, 
and  I  who  the  day  before  yesterday,  at  the  Cafe  An- 
glais, was  finding  fault  with  the  chef  and  scolding  the 
waiter  about  a  filet  of  sole  with  shrimps,  will  next  time 
think  it  a  treat.  Certainly  my  idea  is  an  excellent 
one,  and  my  cure  for  discontent  will  put  me  to  rights  in 
twenty-four  hours.  There  is  something  wanting,  how- 
ever, to  complete  my  woes;  everything  here  is  just  what 
I  was  wishing  for;  it  makes  me  feel  sick,  but  to  crown 
it  all  I  should  have  some  of  my  tedious  friends  of  last 
year,  for  example,  Monsieur  Mataboul!  I  do  regret 
23  [353] 


FRANCOIS  COPPtiE 

his  absence  because,  for  some  time  past,  the  conversa- 
tion at  the  club  has  been  a  bore  to  me;  my  comrades 
speak  of  nothing  but  horses  and  idle  talk,  but  Mon- 
sieur Mataboul  would  talk  politics  to  me;  I  never 
knew  a  greater  bore  than  he.  Oh,  that  he  were  here 
to  fulminate  against  the  encroachments  of  the  clergy, 
or  to  denounce  to  the  public  the  danger  of  leaving 
Egypt  in  the  hands  of  the  English  Government!" 

At  this  very  moment,  as  if  destiny  obeyed  Alberic, 
M.  Mataboul  entered  the  restaurant;  he  had  with 
him  a  pretty,  sweet-looking  girl  about  eight  years  old 
in  mourning  garb. 

He.  knew  Alberic  directly  and  exclaimed:  "Can  I 
believe  my  eyes!"  as  in  the  classical  tragedies.  "You, 
my  dear  Monsieur  Mesnard?  What!  the  lucky  man, 
the  winner  of  the  big  prize,  comes  back  to  dine  in  a 
humble  restaurant!  I  am  charmed  to  see  you  again. 
Will  you  permit  me  to  sit  down  at  your  table?" 

' '  Do  so  by  all  means,  Monsieur  Mataboul.  At  the  mo- 
ment when  you  came  in  I  was  regretting  your  absence. " 

"Now,  Josephine,"  said  Mataboul,  "bring  us  some 
dinner.  Once  more  I  assure  you  I  am  pleased  to  see 
you." 

He  placed  the  darling  child  on  a  chair  and  said: 
"Monsieur  Mesnard,  you  are  about  to  see  that  she 
can  eat  quietly  like  a  big  girl.  She  is  only  eight  years 
old,  but  very  sensible." 

Alberic  was  much  surprised  to  see  this  southerner, 
with  wild  eyes  and  the  face  of  a  brigand  of  the  Ab- 
ruzzi,  taking  care  of  this  child  and  tying  her  napkin 
with  motherly  carefulness. 

[354] 


THE  CURE  FOR  DISCONTENT 

"Who  is  this  pretty  child?"  asked  Alberic. 

"Oh,  it  is  Mariette,"  replied  Mataboul,  "my  only 
niece,  who  loves  her  uncle  well;  is  it  not  so,  darling? 
Ah!  my  life  has  been  changed  greatly  during  the  last 
six  weeks.  You  see  I  wear  mourning.  I  will  tell 
you  all  by-and-by.  Let  us  speak  of  yourself  first, 
my  dear  Mesnard,  for  I  am  so  surprised  to  find  you 
again  in  the  old  restaurant.  Pardon  me  if  my  ques- 
tion is  indiscreet.  Since  our  separation  we  have  had 
the  failure  of  the  Comptoir  de  Credit.  I  do  hope  you 
have  not  deposited  your  capital  in  the  hands  of  those 
swindlers.  I  should  be  so  sorry  if  it  were  so,  for  you  are 
kind-hearted,  and  your  good  luck  pleased  me  very  much. ' ' 

Yes — he  was  a  good  fellow,  this  great  talker,  Mat- 
aboul! Alberic  was  much  moved.  When  he  was  un- 
lucky in  the  heavy  game  on  Saturday  evening  in  the 
club,  Bordier  and  Santelet,  his  so-called  friends,  re- 
garded his  losses  very  philosophically;  and  at  the 
possibility  of  a  misfortune  this  Mataboul,  nearly  a 
stranger,  was  really  distressed.  "Be  reassured,"  re- 
plied Alberic  to  Mataboul,  who  had  just  helped  his 
niece  to  the  half  of  a  doubtful  mackerel.  "No,  I 
am  not  ruined.  I  will  explain  to  you  that  I  come  here 
through  a  whim,  a  bet.  But  now  tell  me  about  this 
child." 

"The  story  is  not  cheerful,  I  assure  you,"  replied 
Mataboul.  "I  had  one  sister;  I  was  her  senior  by 
three  years;  she  was  an  unhappy  widow  with  this 
child  and  kept  a  small  tobacco  shop  at  the  Grand- 
Montrouge;  I  rarely  saw  her.  I  could  not  help  her 
much — after  all,  she  managed  to  live.  She  had  done 

[355] 


very  wrong  to  leave  the  country  to  marry  a  Parisian, 
a  bad  man,  who  soon  squandered  her  small  dowry. 
He  died,  leaving  her  a  widow  thirty-two  years  of  age. 
I  paid  her  three  visits  a  year.  Her  health  had  been 
breaking  for  some  time,  but  in  September  last  she 
died  without  letting  me  know  she  was  ill.  The  doctor 
said  she  died  of  anaemia;  it  is  their  great  word!  I 
have  inherited  her  daughter.  I  am  her  uncle,  her 
guardian;  but  it  is  annoying  that  I  am  an  old  bach- 
elor. I  live  in  furnished  apartments  on  the  Boulevard 
Pigalle  at  the  Hotel  de  1'Univers — you  know  the  house 
where  a  shoemaker  sells  workmen's  boots.  Luckily 
they  have  arranged  a  small  bedroom  for  Mariette  close 
to  my  own,  and  I  am  sure  you  are  very  comfortable 
there,  my  darling,"  added  Mataboul;  "you  are  not 
afraid  at  night  and  you  know  well  that  uncle  leaves 
the  door  half -open!" 

M.  Mataboul,  with  his  terrible  face,  like  that  of  Fra 
Diavolo,  kissed  her  tenderly. 

"It  must  be  a  very  heavy  burden  for  you,"  said 
Alberic,  struggling  against  emotion;  "how  do  you 
reconcile  this  with  your  former  existence?" 

"I  get  on  pretty  well,  I  assure  you,"  replied  M. 
Mataboul;  "then  school  is  the  great  resource!  I 
take  Mariette  to  school  in  the  morning;  she  likes  the 
good  Sisters.  All  day  I  travel  by  trams  and  omni- 
buses; I  cross  Paris  in  all  directions;  I  go  to  see 
my  restaurant  people;  I  try  to  sell  barrels  of  wine. 
I  work  hard  now,  for  I  have  to  work  for  two.  I  wish 
to  economize,  to  have  my  own  furniture,  and  to  engage 
a  young  maidservant.  When  my  day's  work  is  over 

[356] 


THE  CURE  FOR  DISCONTENT 

I  hurry  to  take  the  child  from  school,  and  I  bring 
her  here  to  dine  with  me.  Afterward  we  go  back  to 
the  hotel,  and  I  make  her  learn  her  lessons;  then  it 
is  bedtime,  poor  little  girl!  Is  it  not  so,  Mariette? 
If  you  wish  to  grow  tall  and  have  plump  cheeks,  you 
must  go  to  bed  early." 

"Is  it  possible,  Monsieur  Mataboul,  you  no  longer 
spend  your  evenings  in  the  cafe  ?  You  read  no  papers  ? 
You  care  no  more  for  politics?" 

"Hardly  ever,  it  is  true.  I  do  not  even  know  what 
happened  during  the  last  fortnight  in  the  Balkans.  I 
admit  it  was  very  hard  at  first.  Yet  I  yield  to  my  old 
fancy  at  times.  I  am  going  now  to  the  Cafe  du  Delta, 
where  I  ask  the  waiter  to  bring  Mariette  the  illus- 
trated papers,  and  then  I  read  the  political  papers 
attentively.  You  know  when  these  soft-brained  sen- 
ators lately  altered  the  military  law?  By  jingo!  I 
could  not  resist  it!  I  went  to  the  Delta  with  Mariette 
and  read  the  description  in  extenso.  I  found  the 
child  dying  with  sleep  over  the  Charivari.  1  shall 
give  that  up,  for  it  is  my  duty. " 

"Duty!"  This  was  a  word  which  Alberic  had  not 
heard  for  a  long  time. 

In  his  world — at  the  circus,  in  the  fencing-room,  in 
the  precincts  of  the  weighing-room,  in  the  boudoir 
of  Mademoiselle  Acacia,  behind  the  scenes  of  theatres, 
upon  the  divan  of  the  club — pleasure  was  the  only 
word  mentioned;  yet  duty  also  existed.  By  this  time 
Mataboul  had  finished  his  dinner  and  was  now,  care- 
fully as  a  nurse,  wrapping  up  his  niece  in  a  black 
woollen  shawl. 

[357] 


FRANCOIS  COPPfeE 

At  his  departure  Mataboul  said:  "I  dare  not  hope 
to  see  you  often  here,  dear  Monsieur  Mesnard;  the 
fish  was  not  tempting  enough  to  induce  you  to  return. 
I  am  so  pleased  to  have  met  you  again;  and  were  it 
not  that  I  have  to  make  Mariette  repeat  her  grammar 
lesson,  we  should  have  gone  to  the  cafe.  I  should 
have  liked  to  know  the  latest  news  about  the  Eastern 
question.  Servia  is  in  a  sad  state;  this  abdication  of 
King  Milan  is  a  grave  affair.  But  Mariette  must 
look  over  the  rules  of  the  participles.  Good-by,  again, 
Monsieur." 

Mariette  came  toward  Alberic,  who  kissed  her. 
How  sweet  it  is  to  kiss  a  child!  Why  did  he  feel  so 
moved  at  heart? 

"Monsieur  Mataboul,  it  is  possible  I  may  have 
occasion  to  write  to  you  soon;  tell  me  your  address." 

"Boulevard  Pigalle,  Hotel  de  PUnivers,"  replied  the 
wine-broker.  "Next  time  we  see  each  other  we  shall 
speak  of  the  last  elections.  It  is  intolerable  to  see 
the  old  parties  holding  up  their  heads  with  so  much 
effrontery.  Good-night  once  more." 

Alberic  left  the  restaurant  soon  after;  large  stars 
were  shining  and  the  wind  was  cutting. 

"This  time,"  reflected  Alberic,  while  going  to  the 
Rue  Ravignan,  "my  treatment  is  at  a  fault,  for  so  far 
from  being  a  bore  to  me,  Monsieur  Mataboul  has 
affected  me  very  much.  I  must  do  something  for  him 
and  his  niece;  to  admit  to  one's  self  that  a  bore  can 
be  also  a  good  man,  to  become  indulgent  toward  other 
people's  faults,  to  be  reminded  that  there  is  wretched 
poverty  nobly  borne  and  to  wish  to  succor  it — all  this 

[358] 


THE  CURE  FOR  DISCONTENT 

forms  part  of  the  cure  for  unhappiness  and  discon- 
tent and  is  a  matter  for  reflection.  Let  me  go  now  to 
my  old  room."  He  soon  arrived,  and  on  entering 
found  the  porter,  who  was  a  tailor,  sitting  on  a  table 
patching  an  old  garment.  He  started  up  with  sur- 
prise on  seeing  his  old  tenant. 

"Monsieur  Mesnard!"  he  exclaimed;  "is  it  indeed 
you?  Well,  I  thought  you  were  no  longer  in  this 
world.  I  know  you  paid  me  four  quarters  in  advance, 
but  as  we  heard  nothing  of  you  the  landlord  and  I 
were  puzzled  what  to  do  concerning  your  furniture." 

"  Don't  be  uneasy,  Father  Constant, "  replied  Alberic. 
" Give  me  my  key — I  intend  to  sleep  there  to-night." 

"What!  to  sleep  here!  What  a  strange  idea  for  the 
winner  of  the  big  prize!  Your  room  is  full  of  dust, 
no  doubt,  and  there  has  been  no  fire  in  it  for  a  year. 
Think  of  it!  Well,  wait  till  the  return  of  my  wife, 
then  I  will  go  and  lay  the  sheets." 

Here,  let  us  confess  it,  Albe"ric  yielded  to  his  first 
weakness;  after  all,  he  thought,  to  die  by  cold  did  not 
enter  into  his  plan,  and  even  in  the  old  dark  days  the 
doorkeeper  had  looked  to  his  comfort. 

"Very  well!"  said  Alberic;  "as  soon  as  your  wife 
returns  you  can  go  and  get  my  room  ready.  Now  I 
am  going  to  pay  a  visit  to  Madame  and  Mademoiselle 
Bouquet." 

"Oh!"  replied  old  Constant,  "a  misfortune  has  hap- 
pened to  those  ladies;  the  mamma  has  had  an  attack." 

"Oh,  indeed!  an  attack?" 

"Yes — something  very  bad,  the  doctor  said.  These 
ladies  were  poor,  and  now  illness  adds  to  the  burden. 

[359] 


FRANCOIS 

And   poor    Mademoiselle   Zoe   is   so   courageous,  so 
amiable!" 

The  old  sympathy  of  Alberic  for  Mademoiselle  Zoe" 
was  at  once  awakened,  so  he  went  upstairs  nimbly 
and  listened  at  the  door  to  the  noise  of  a  sewing- 
machine.     Alas!  it  had  to  be  worked  more  than  ever 
now  that  misfortune  had  entered  the  house. 

Alberic  rang.  Mademoiselle  Zoe  opened  the  door. 
"Ah!  mamma,"  she  exclaimed,  "here  is  an  unex- 
pected visit  which  will  please  you.  It  is  Monsieur 
Alberic." 

Her  eyes  were  full  of  frankness  and  her  charming 
smile  of  welcome  enchanted  him.  She  had,  alas! 
become  thinner,  and  her  tired  eyelids  betrayed  long 
nights  of  work. 

Alberic  first  saluted  Madame  Bouquet,  who  had 
grown  older  by  ten  years;  her  hair  was  quite  gray, 
and  she  sat  motionless  in  her  armchair.  The  decayed 
beauty,  now  paralyzed,  fixed  her  brilliant  eyes  upon 
Alberic  and  nodded  to  him  without  any  sign  of  her 
former  dignity. 

"I  must  apologize,"  said  the  young  man,  "for  my 
long  absence.  I  have  been  travelling.  I  have  just 
been  informed  by  old  Constant,  Mademoiselle  Zoe*, 
that  your  dear  mother  has  been  ill.  I  hastened  to 
make  inquiries  about  her." 

"Alas!  yes,  Monsieur  Alberic,"  replied  Madame 
Bouquet  in  a  doleful  voice,  "see,  I  can  scarcely  move 
my  poor  hand;  at  fifty-two  years  of  age  it  is  hard; 
and  if  you  knew  all  the  trouble  I  give  to  my  dear 
Zoe — she  is  so  devoted  to  me." 

1360] 


THE  CURE  FOR  DISCONTENT 

What  a  change!  The  old  lady  had  no  longer  her 
royal  gait,  her  glance  like  that  of  Marie  Antoinette 
before  the  revolutionary  tribunal.  And — was  it  pos- 
sible?— while  she  complained  she  pitied  her  daughter 
and  spoke  of  her  so  tenderly.  Yes,  indeed!  misfor- 
tune is  good  for  something.  The  trials  of  Madame 
Bouquet  had  worked  that  miracle.  Illness  had  broken 
down  that  exacting  temper  and  melted  the  egotism  of 
her  heart.  When  condemned  to  submit  to  the  guar- 
dianship of  her  daughter,  the  mother  appreciated  at 
last  her  admirable  child. 

Zoe  kissed  the  pale  forehead  of  the  paralytic  and 
sat  down  again  before  the  sewing-machine. 

"Mamma  flatters  me,"  she  said,  turning  her  ten- 
der eyes  toward  Alberic;  "what  she  says  is  through 
kindness  for  me.  You  could  not  believe  with  what 
great  resignation  she  bears  her  trial;  besides,  she  is 
already  much  improved.  You  see,  I  can  only  give  her 
small  attentions,  but  she  has  such  very  great  energy  that 
I  am  certain  she  will  not  give  way,  and  you  will  see, 
Monsieur  Albe"ric,  she  will  soon  be  cured  entirely." 

No!  paralysis  does  not  relent,  and  the  half  of  her 
body  is  forever  useless.  She  seems  overwhelmed  by 
that  calamity,  but  Mademoiselle  Zo6  will  never  admit 
that  she  is  beyond  cure,  and  tries  to  keep  hope  alive 
in  her  mother's  mind.  She  repeats  over  and  over 
again  to  the  poor  cripple  the  flattering  assurance  of 
ultimate  cure;  she  persuades  her  that  she  has  pre- 
served her  former  fortitude,  and — emotions  are  so 
dangerous  to  invalids — she  even  tries  to  escape  from 
those  maternal  caresses  of  which  she  was  formerly  de- 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

prived.  Oh!  that  she  could  restore  to  the  infirm  lady, 
now  so  affectionate,  her  former  faults!  How  willingly 
she  would  consent  to  endure  again  the  coldness  of 
her  mother's  nature! 

Alberic's  heart  was  beating  sorrowfully,  although 
delightfully.  Had  he  been  blind?  He  had  never  be- 
fore noticed  that,  without  being  very  pretty,  Made- 
moiselle Zoe  was  adorable.  How  much  simplicity  in 
her  self-sacrifice!  She  must  have  suffered,  the  poor 
girl!  And  what  anguish  in  thoughts  of  the  future! 
For  it  was  easy  to  see  these  unhappy  women  were  on 
the  verge  of  poverty!  Where  is  the  clock  of  the  Louis 
XVI  period?  Where  are  the  two  fine  engravings, 
remnants  of  the  wreck  of  the  family  Bouquet,  which 
used  to  adorn  the  walls?  At  the  bric-a-brac  dealer's, 
without  doubt!  Oh,  heavens!  they  are  reduced  to 
that !  This  exquisite  Mademoiselle  Zoe — who  now  and 
then  lifts  up  her  eyes  and  looks  at  Alberic  sorrow- 
fully, as  if  to  say:  "What  a  pity  you  are  rich!" — was 
obliged  to  sell  the  furniture  to  save  herself  and  her 
mother  from  starving.  What  a  frightful  thought! 

While  Madame  Bouquet,  with  a  tearful  and  stam- 
mering voice,  told  all  about  her  illness  and  the  kind- 
nesses of  her  Zoe,  Alberic,  who  feigns  to  be  listening 
to  her,  abandons  himself  totally  to  his  future  schemes. 
Truly  it  was  foolish — his  life  of  pleasure!  To-mor- 
row he  will  give  notice  that  he  will  quit  his  stuffy 
entresol;  he  will  dismiss  his  Lovelace  with  the  choc- 
olate-colored gaiters;  he  will  send  his  resignation  to 
the  president  of  the  club;  he  will  forget  the  addresses 
of  Bordier  and  Santelet — in  short,  he  will  pass  a  sponge 


THE  CURE  FOR  DISCONTENT 

over  his  past  life.  All  that  life  was  false — fatigue  and 
disgust  were  its  only  results.  To  do  one's  duty,  to  live 
for  others — here  is  the  true  means  of  escaping  ennui. 
Duty!  he  has  hardly  any  to  fulfil,  as  he  is  rich  and 
alone.  Well,  he  is  about  to  assume  some.  Ah!  you 
imagine,  little  Zoe,  that  I  can  not  love  you  because  I 
am  rich!  I  will  marry  you  for  your  beautiful  eyes 
and  for  the  skilful  way  you  make  the  cloth  slip  under 
the  needle  of  your  machine.  Yes,  Mademoiselle,  some 
one  will  become  the  respectful  son-in-law  of  Madame 
Bouquet  and  will  help  you  to  attend  the  poor  cripple; 
and  although  he  still  possesses,  in  spite  of  many  follies, 
a  capital  that  will  enable  him  to  live  on  the  income, 
he  will  begin  again  to  work;  not  as  an  amateur  at 
Cahun  and  Son's,  no!  but  he  will  go  on  with  some 
occupation,  even  if  he  is  obliged  to  paint,  like  his 
father,  hundreds  of  dozens  of  oysters.  There  is  one 
thing  certain,  Mademoiselle  Zoe,  and  it  is  that  he 
loves  you  and  is  going  to  ask  for  your  hand.  He  will 
abandon  the  life  of  a  bachelor,  and  will  have  much 
less  merit  in  doing  so  than  the  kind  M.  Mataboul 
had  when  he  gave  up  politics  and  his  cafe  that  his 
niece  might  go  to  bed  early. 

Alberic  rose  abruptly,  took  Zoe  by  the  hand,  and 
led  her  to  her  mother's  side.  "Dear  Madame  Bou- 
quet," said  he,  trembling,  "pardon  me  for  not  having 
told  you  the  truth.  No!  I  was  not  absent.  I  re- 
mained in  Paris  and  led  a  foolish  life.  I  was  ungrate- 
ful not  to  have  paid  you  a  visit  sooner.  I  was  suffer- 
ing from  a  dreadful  illness  known  only  among  the 
rich;  it  has  cost  me  a  hundred  thousand  francs  and 

[363] 


FRANCOIS  COPP^E 

has  somewhat  injured  my  health,  but  I  have  followed 
drastic  treatment  which  has  quite  cured  me.  Now, 
dear  Madame,  you  can  with  one  word  make  me  the 
most  happy  or  the  most  miserable  of  men.  I  love 
Mademoiselle  Zoe,  I  dare  hope  I  am  not  indifferent 
to  her,  and  I  ask  you  frankly  to  accept  me  as  your 
son-in-law." 

Oh,  heavens!  what  is  the  matter  with  the  poor 
girl?  Her  fainting  head  falls  upon  the  young  man's 
shoulder,  and  then  she  melts  into  tears.  Truly  she 
must  have  loved  him  dearly!  She  kneels  before  her 
mother  and  takes  hold  of  her  paralyzed  hand.  Alberic 
himself,  deeply  moved,  kneels  also.  What  could  the 
poor  mother  do  except  weep  in  her  turn  while  bless- 
ing the  happy  pair? 

Healed  by  his  "cure  for  discontent,"  so  short  but 
so  efficacious,  and  having  preserved  a  competency 
from  the  wreck  of  his  great  prize,  Alberic,  with  his 
mother-in-law  and  his  young  bride,  dwells  in  a  very 
pretty  country-house  situated  at  ten  leagues  from 
Paris,  upon  a  hillslope  by  the  banks  of  the  Seine. 
There,  on  a  charming  terrace,  Madame  Bouquet  re- 
poses comfortably  on  pillows  and  looks  at  the  boats 
passing  by.  The  young  wife  has  preserved  her  ma- 
chine and  sits  down  often  near  her  mother  to  work. 

She  is  very  happy,  and  her  husband  has  not  yet 
found  any  better  occupation  than  to  love  his  wife. 
In  the  beginning  of  autumn,  in  order  to  beguile  the 
tedious  long  evenings,  he  occupied  his  time  in  writing 
French  poetry  in  praise  of  his  dear  Zoe.  On  Sun- 
day M.  Mataboul,  who  is  now  a  wholesale  wine-mer- 

[364] 


THE  CURE  FOR  DISCONTENT 

chant,  thanks  to  a  round  sum  of  money  lent  by  Al- 
beric, and  is  successful  in  business,  comes  with  his 
niece  to  share  the  family  dinner.  Then  Madame 
Mesnard  lavishes  on  the  little  Mariette  those  tender 
caresses  which  make  one  guess  that  she  will  later  be 
a  good  mother. 

As  it  is  pretty  hard  to  get  fish  in  the  country,  M. 
Mataboul  brings  down  with  him  a  lobster,  ready 
boiled,  whose  color  does  honor  to  his  radical  views. 
For  prosperity  has  failed  to  spoil  him,  and  he  still 
remains  a  Republican  of  the  deepest  dye.  Without 
neglecting  business,  he  has  regained  all  his  interest 
in  politics,  and  this  makes  him  at  times  as  great  a 
bore  as  ever.  Alberic  bears  with  him,  knowing  all 
his  good  qualities;  but  Madame  Bouquet  was  ter- 
ribly scandalized  the  other  day  when  he  loudly  ex- 
pressed his  approval  of  the  incorporation  of  priests  in 
the  army,  and  cried  out:  " Priests!  Bah!  Put  them 
all  in  uniform!"  And  yet,  rather  illogically,  he  has 
sent  his  little  niece  to  a  convent-school,  "because, 
you  see,  there  is  no  one  except  the  good  Sisters  who 
can  teach  children  properly." 

Alberic  has  completely  broken  with  his  friends  at 
the  club.  Big  Bordier,  after  a  rather  too  lively  finan- 
cial career,  has  been  forced  to  put  the  Belgian  frontier 
between  himself  and  the  police.  And  as  for  Santelet, 
whose  grandfather  was  master  of  a  merchant-ship  and 
for  thirty  years  dealt  largely  in  negroes  for  a  Nantes 
ship-owner,  he  occupies,  by  a  strange  phenomenon  of 
atavism,  a  nearly  analagous  position.  He  is  now  a 
theatrical  manager. 

[365] 


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